by Peter Snow
At the end of the Madison Presidency James and Dolley retired to their beloved country estate at Montpelier. James Madison loved country pursuits; Dolley hankered after the buzz of Washington, but she made up for it by entertaining generously and she saw much of her old friend Margaret Bayard Smith. The Madisons remained devoted to each other. ‘Mr Madison dearly loved and was proud of his wife,’ wrote Mary Cutts, Dolley’s niece. ‘She was his solace and comfort, he could not bear her to leave his presence…’ Dolley Madison was desolate after James’s death in 1836 and spent her last few years in some poverty, aggravated by the selfish extravagance of her son Payne Todd. She sold Montpelier, returned to Washington and was partly supported by Paul Jennings, the old White House servant who gave her some of his savings. He remained devoted to the family, saying that James Madison was ‘one of the best men who ever lived’. His devotion to Dolley in her last years is all the more remarkable for the fact that she was so broke that she had to sell him as a slave to her neighbour. When Dolley Madison finally died, aged eighty-nine, in 1849, the US President Zachary Taylor said: ‘She was truly our First Lady for a half century.’ James Madison is remembered as one of the greatest United States political leaders. He is admired more for his early contributions to America’s constitutional development than for his Presidency, and certainly not for his role as Commander in Chief in the War of 1812. America may have emerged from the war a wiser, more self-assured nation than when it went in, but the war was ill conceived and mismanaged. And for that Madison must take much of the blame.
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For Britain the bitter memories of the war with the United States soon faded. America’s threat to British interests gradually gave way to much deeper concerns about Russia and then Germany. Over the rest of the century worries about American expansion and trade that had been the basis of the War of 1812 turned into a mutual interest in global security and commercial enterprise to the benefit of both sides of the Atlantic. Any pride there may have been in the heady days of 1814 at having given the Americans ‘a good drubbing’ by burning Washington was soon replaced by many with the thought that the action had been unworthy of a country that called itself civilised. A British traveller who witnessed the rebirth of Washington a few years later remarked that the British invaders had ‘acted, perhaps, agreeably to their orders, but certainly in opposition to the feelings, judgment, and character of the British people’.
Of the admirals who’d destroyed Washington, Edward Codrington went on to command the allied navies which defeated the Ottoman Turks at Navarino in 1827 in the struggle for the liberation of Greece. Alexander Cochrane became Commander in Chief of the important west country dockyard of Plymouth. George Cockburn, to no one’s surprise, had a colourful and hyperactive career on his return. After the Battle of Waterloo in June 1815 he was deputed to accompany Napoleon to exile on the island of St Helena. He pronounced Napoleon ‘uncouth and disagreeable’, and insisted that he should never be referred to as ‘Emperor’ but only as ‘General Buonaparte’. Cockburn carried out his task with a relish and ruthlessness that made Napoleon describe him as ‘rough, overbearing, vain, choleric and capricious … never consulting anybody; jealous of his authority; caring little of the manner in which he exercises it and sometimes violent without dignity…’. Cockburn went on to become a Tory MP and First Naval Lord at the Admiralty in 1841 at the age of sixty-nine. A right-winger by instinct, he was nevertheless an innovator, and an enthusiastic advocate of the development of the steamship. He died at eighty-two, an admiral of the fleet. One of the pallbearers at his funeral was James Scott, his former devoted ADC in the American campaign, who later became an admiral himself.
Arthur Brooke went with Pakenham to New Orleans but left for home in a fit of pique when he wasn’t given command of a brigade. He thought the British government owed him more after Baltimore, and told them so: he ended up a lieutenant general but never saw any more active service. George de Lacy Evans was a lot luckier. When the government refused him the double promotion that Robert Ross had requested for him, he made a great fuss. The rank of captain, he complained to Whitehall, was ‘a totally inadequate reward’. It worked: at the Battle of Waterloo just a month later he was an acting lieutenant colonel, and went on to command a division in the Crimean War with the rank of general. He also won a seat in the House of Commons and was a passionate promoter of army reform. But his forthright and intolerant personality lost him friends and weakened his influence. George Gleig, the prolific diarist, went on to write a biography of the Duke of Wellington and became chaplain general to the forces. He called for better education for the military and wrote another fifty-seven books. He died at ninety-two in 1888. Harry Smith was a great survivor too. He was to become a baronet and a lieutenant general. In 1847 Sir Harry and the wife he adored, Juana, were posted to South Africa. He was a very popular governor of the Cape, and when he and Juana left, the South Africans named a number of towns after them – including Harrismith and Ladysmith.
When Harry Smith and Juana had visited Robert Ross’s wife Elizabeth back in September 1814 before the news of Baltimore had reached London, none of them knew that the husband she missed so desperately was dead. ‘Poor thing!’ wrote Smith later, ‘at that very moment of her excessive happiness he was in a soldier’s grave.’ Elizabeth Ross – ‘My Ly’ as Robert Ross had called her – was shattered by the news of his death, which reached her in late October. Ross’s body, preserved in 129 gallons of rum, wasn’t taken home to Ireland: it was transported to the British colony of Nova Scotia and buried in St Paul’s churchyard in Halifax, the capital. But the government honoured Ross’s dying wish and provided generously for Elizabeth and her family. The Prince Regent also granted them a special privilege: they and their direct descendants would from then on be able to call themselves ‘Ross of Bladensburg’. The last to bear the title, Kathleen Ross of Bladensburg, died a spinster on Christmas Day 1974.
As for the achievement of Ross’s army, it was left to that great nineteenth-century chronicler of military campaigns Baron de Jomini to characterise it as an ‘extraordinary’ undertaking: ‘The world was astonished to see a handful of seven or eight thousand Englishmen making their appearance in the midst of a state embracing ten millions of people, taking possession of the capital, and destroying all the public buildings – results unparalleled in history.’ It was actually under five thousand in the midst of more than seven million, but few people would deny that what took place in those few weeks in August and September 1814 was, indeed, ‘extraordinary’.
British troops set the White House ablaze on August 24, 1814, as Rear Admiral George Cockburn (in black, bottom left) and Major General Robert Ross discuss what next to burn in Washington. They also torched both houses of Congress, the Treasury, and the War Office.
The White House in flames. This artist’s impression shows how efficiently the British incendiaries did their work—after they’d devoured the lavish dinner laid out for the U.S. president and his wife who were now fugitives. Critics said the conflagration was ‘barbarous,’ but Britain said it was retaliation for U.S. actions in Canada.
Rear Admiral George Cockburn stands in front of a blazing Washington. Blunt and forthright, he was the driving force behind the campaign of destruction. The mere mention of his name struck terror into the Americans, who offered a huge reward for his capture or death.
Major General Robert Ross, the British army commander from County Down, Ireland. His courage and humanity endeared him to his men, but his staff—and George Cockburn—were exasperated by his sometimes excessive caution.
An American artist depicts Admiral Cockburn in the foreground supervising the burning and plundering of Havre de Grace, a Chesapeake Bay town, in 1813. Even a baby’s cradle is fair game.
James Madison, U.S. president, 1809–17. A thoughtful undemonstrative man, sombrely attired, he looked like a “schoolmaster dressed for a funeral.” He was a founding father of the U.S. constitution but an uninspired wartime
leader.
Dolley Madison, the president’s wife. Bouncy and sociable with twinkling eyes, her White House parties made her a legend. She and James were unlikely partners but always close, and she showed fierce courage during the crisis.
The U.S. Capitol before the burning: the two houses of Congress were joined by a wooden passage. Broad, tree-lined Pennsylvania Avenue led to the White House one-and-a-half miles away.
Joshua Barney, hero of many naval contests with the British. His gallantry at the battle for Washington did much to make up for the incompetence and cowardice of most of his comrades-in-arms.
Barney’s flotilla of flat-bottomed barges was America’s main weapon against the might of the Royal Navy in shallow coastal waters. Each barge, powered by oars and sails, mounted two heavy guns—bow and stern.
Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, British commander in chief of the expedition. His task was to “give the Americans a good drubbing.” His orders were not always obeyed by the willful George Cockburn.
Rear Admiral Edward Codrington, the only admiral in the task force who fought the French at Trafalgar. His job was to manage Cochrane’s fleet. He questioned the wisdom of the attacks on Washington and Baltimore.
HMS Tonnant, Cochrane’s massive eighty-gun flagship, captured from the French at the Battle of the Nile and another veteran of Trafalgar. The plan to invade Washington was devised aboard her when she arrived in the Chesapeake.
Captain Harry Smith, independent-minded Rifles officer who had served Wellington well in the Peninsula. He wrote a frank and often witty critique of Britain’s high command, thanks to his job as Ross’s staff officer.
Juana Smith, who married Harry at the age of fourteen after he’d rescued her at the siege of Badajoz in Spain in 1812. She was distraught when he was posted to America.
Lieutenant George de Lacy Evans. A junior aide to Robert Ross, he combined deep loyalty to his chief with burning ambition. Like Cockburn, he was constantly urging bolder action.
George Gleig, prolific diarist, aged eighteen in 1814. A discerning eyewitness with a great sense of mischief, he later wrote a biography of the Duke of Wellington and died in 1888, aged ninety-two.
Brigadier General William Winder. Chosen by Madison to defend Washington, he drove himself to distraction trying to muster and then command a force comprised mainly of barely trained militia.
John Armstrong, Madison’s secretary of war, overbearing and unloved by his subordinates. He was utterly unsupportive of William Winder, his commander in the field, and refused to take the blame for leaving Washington undefended.
James Monroe, Madison’s secretary of state and then war secretary, and bitter rival of John Armstrong. A cool professional, he’d been a colonel in the U.S. War of Independence and went on to succeed Madison as president.
John Pendleton Kennedy. Dashing young Baltimore militiaman who went into battle wearing his dancing pumps, in anticipation of a victory ball at the White House. He became a popular U.S. novelist.
The White House after the burning. A torrential rainstorm the next day helped to douse the flames and leave the outer walls standing. They survive to this day and still show the burn marks. The interior was reduced to ashes.
The two houses of Congress after the burning. The wooden corridor and the lavish interiors were devastated. One outraged British Member of Parliament said British troops had done what the Goths refused to do at Rome.
Save that painting! The portrait of George Washington painted by Gilbert Stuart in 1797 which Dolley Madison insisted on rescuing. She delayed her flight from the White House to supervise its removal on a horse-drawn wagon. The painting is now back in the White House.
Margaret Bayard Smith, whose letters describe her family’s close friendship with the Madisons and the horror and shame of the British invasion. “Oh that I, a feeble woman, could do something,” she wrote to her sister.
William Thornton, erudite Washington doctor and architect, whose British background inclined him to be civil to the invaders.
James Ewell, another well-to-do doctor, who, like Thornton, risked being seen as a traitor due to his conciliatory attitude to the British.
A British cartoon scorns James Madison and his war secretary fleeing their burning city with handfuls of hastily grabbed state papers. An American bystander observes: “I suppose this is what Maddie calls benefitting his country!”
Captain Charles Napier, “Black Charlie,” skipper of the frigate Euryalus, whose gritty tenacity helped ensure the success of Gordon’s Potomac expedition. He was wounded in the neck.
Captain James Alexander Gordon led the daring British naval expedition up the Potomac that secured the surrender of Alexandria. He and Napier came away with twenty-one captured ships and a pile of prize money.
Major General Ross is shot by a rifleman in the approach to Baltimore. His aides rush to help. Lowered from his horse, he died on a cart taking him back to the fleet—to the profound distress of his men.
Major General Sam Smith, saviour of Baltimore. A widely respected fifty-nine-year-old veteran of the War of Independence and tough-speaking U.S. senator, he readily accepted the task of ensuring his city didn’t suffer the fate of Washington.
Major George Armistead, commander of Fort McHenry at Baltimore. His leadership and foresight inspired the fort’s garrison to survive the British bombardment which lasted twenty-five hours.
Brigadier General John Stricker, commander of Baltimore’s advance force dispatched to North Point to try to impede the British approach to the city. The British said he was sent packing: Stricker called it a fighting withdrawal.
Colonel Arthur Brooke, Ross’s successor and Stricker’s opponent at North Point. Competent but without Ross’s charisma, he went on to face an agonising choice when hugely outnumbered at Baltimore.
The Battle of North Point, September 12 1814, painted from memory by an American soldier. Stricker and his staff (right) have drawn up their men in a huge right angle at the edge of the wood, the 51st protecting their flank (left). The British can be seen in the far distance approaching over open ground.
Fort McHenry from the air. The star-shaped fortress with its low-profile ramparts looks today much as it did in September 1814. This view looks north with the entrance to Baltimore’s inner harbour on the right.
The bombardment of Fort McHenry looking south across the inner harbour with the fort and its banner in the centre, and the British warships beyond. The British launched mortar shells and rockets at the fort from 6 a.m. on September 13 to 7 a.m. the next day.
Mary Pickersgill, the seamstress, who together with her daughter and two nieces made a massive flag to fly over Fort McHenry. She was commissioned by George Armistead to make it so large the British would see it from afar.
Pickersgill’s star-spangled banner photographed with a soldier standing beneath it in 1872. At its full extent it measured 30 × 42 feet. It’s now displayed in the Smithsonian Museum in Washington.
Francis Scott Key spots the flag still flying above Fort McHenry at dawn on September 14, 1814. It is not the Union Jack, as he had feared, but the star-spangled banner. He never knew the poem he wrote would become America’s national anthem.
The score of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” printed by a Baltimore publisher in the nineteenth century. Scott Key’s poem “O say can you see…” was set to the music of an old English song club favorite and was adopted as the U.S. anthem in 1931.
An American cartoon celebrates the British departure from Baltimore. The United States was quick to claim it as a resounding victory. The American soldier who is prodding John Bull’s bottom shouts: “We’ll teach you to know what a flogging is!!!”
Twelve of the surviving “Old Defenders” of Baltimore sit for a photograph in 1870. George Lightner (second from the right in the back row) was a drummer boy in 1814. The last survivor of the battle—a nine-year-old powder monkey—died in 1898, aged ninety-four.
James Madison, aged eighty-two, in 1833.
He and Dolley spent a happy retirement—he deep in study, she entertaining old friends—until his death in 1836.
A daguerreotype of Dolley Madison in the late 1840s, aged around eighty. She spent her last years in poverty when her son by her first marriage frittered away what money the family had left. She died in 1849, aged eighty-one.