Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Hull drew the Constitution to a stop a scant fifty yards from the stern of the British frigate to get a damage report to his own ship and start repairs, and to give the Guerriere time to take stock of her defenseless position. The report came quickly. The ship was sound. Some of the yards had taken damage, but all were still functional. All masts were sound. The hull was unharmed. He had lost seven of his crew, with seven others wounded. The Constitution was in all particulars seaworthy and her crew sufficient to man her in all weather.

  Aboard the Guerriere, almost every officer on the quarterdeck had gone down in the first volley of musket fire from the American marines. Twenty-three were dead, fifty-six wounded. Captain Dacres was unconscious. His first lieutenant, Bartholomew Kent, and his master, Robert Scott, were down, along with two master’s mates and their young lieutenant midshipman—all from American musket fire. None of the officers were coherent, nor could they take command.

  At seven o’clock pm, the Guerriere struck her colors. It was over.

  Cautiously, Hull brought the Constitution alongside and attempted to board the dying ship with medical help but was driven back by the wind and the surging seas. He remained close to the British ship through the night, watching her running lights, ready to try the impossible should she begin to sink, calling to her with his horn every half hour. The wind lessened during the night, and by four o’clock the ships were riding on smoother waters. Dawn brought the realization that the Guerriere was sinking. She would not remain afloat through the day.

  Hull gave his orders, and morning mess was forgotten as his crew tied the two ships together and began the transfer of prisoners and the ship’s log and other important papers and the war chest from the Guerriere to the Constitution. By three o’clock in the afternoon, beneath clear skies, they had completed their work. Hull sent a squad of ten men onto what was left of the British man-of-war with torches, and waited while they disappeared below decks for ten minutes, then reappeared to come back aboard the American ship. They released the hawsers binding the ships together, the Constitution unfurled her sails, they caught the wind, and she distanced herself from the column of black smoke rising from the burning hulk.

  Fifteen minutes later, what was left of the Guerriere exploded to blow shards of metal and wood two hundred feet in the air and scatter it for half a mile on the sea. Hull gave all British seamen the right to stand at attention on the deck of the American ship to bid their own ship farewell.

  It was in the evening, after mess, that Captain Dacres opened his eyes. It took several moments for him to understand he was in the burned-out quarters of Captain Hull, in Captain Hull’s bed, with the American surgeon seated by his side, watching his every move, counting the slow regularity of his breathing.

  Dacres cleared his throat and tried to speak.

  “You lie still,” the old, gray doctor said.

  “Bring Captain Hull,” Dacres murmured.

  Five minutes later, Hull entered the quarters with John Dunson at his side and knelt beside his own bed to look into Dacres’s eyes.

  “You wanted me, sir?”

  The wounded captain’s voice was faint. “Yes. Should I not survive, I want you to know. You have treated us as a brave and generous enemy should. We have had the greatest care. You have seen to it we did not want for the smallest trifle that was in your power to provide. My log and my letter to His Majesty’s Navy shall so state, if I am allowed to live long enough to make the entries.”

  Hull looked into his face. “I gave you nothing you did not deserve. Nothing you would not have done had the fortunes of battle fallen in your favor, sir.”

  A faint smile formed on Dacres’s lips, and his eyes closed as he drifted into sleep. Hull waited until the surgeon nodded that Dacres would survive, then made his way back to the quarterdeck with John following. The second night crew had taken their stations when John Dunson took his bearings from the stars, with Captain Hull standing next to the helmsman.

  Hull spoke. “May I know where we are, Mister Dunson?”

  “Yes, sir. Just about seven hundred sixty miles east and a little south of Boston.”

  “In miles, not far from where we were this time last night.”

  “No, sir, not far.”

  “In life? Experience?” He shook his head gently. “We came a long way in the last twenty-four hours. Thirty brave men dead. Sixty-three wounded. A great ship on the bottom of the Atlantic.”

  John’s answer came quietly. “Yes, sir. A long way.”

  Hull cleared his throat. “Mister Dunson, is the North Star still there?”

  “As always.”

  “Interesting. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes. Interesting.”

  Notes

  On the night of August 18, 1812, the United States naval frigate Constitution, under command of Captain Isaac Hull, was on a mission to search the Atlantic seaboard for British warships and engage them. He had been as far north as Nova Scotia and Newfoundland and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence before returning to waters off the American coast. That night he sighted an American privateer that was out of Salem, Massachusetts, who reported a British man-of-war to the south. Captain Hull sailed south in search of the British frigate, and at two o’clock pm on August 19, sighted her two hundred fifty miles due east of Boston, in overcast, windy weather that caused heavy seas. He engaged her. The longitude and latitude of the Constitution at the time is as recorded in this chapter.

  The battle between the two warships is as described herein, with the Guerriere traveling what would be called a zigzag course, with the Constitution countering her moves. The ships fired a few rounds at each other with little damage. Then the American ship came alongside the British ship and they both fired broadsides. The British ship took much the worst of it, with her mizzenmast destroyed, lying at an awkward angle on her deck. The American ship came back around and continued with broadsides that cut the British ship to pieces and toppled her mainmast; however, the two came into such close proximity that the bowsprit of the British ship was thrust over the quarterdeck of the American ship. Shortly thereafter, their riggings became entangled, locking the British ship against the American ship, toward the stern. The British cannon blasted the captain’s quarters and set them afire. The flames were not extinguished by John Dunson, who is a fictional character, but by an American Lieutenant Hoffmann.

  During the time the ships were locked together, musket fire from both crews was exchanged, with losses and wounded on each side—seven Americans dead, seven wounded, twenty-three British dead, fifty-six wounded. An American seaman saw a British cannonball bounce off the side of the Constitution and exclaimed, “Her sides are made of iron!” Others heard it, and the legend of “Old Ironsides” was born.

  Among the severely wounded on the British ship was the captain, James Richard Dacres, who took an American musket ball in his back. All officers on the British quarterdeck were hit by American musket balls. Then the ships were torn apart by the heavy seas, and the Constitution drew off a short distance to take stock of her losses. The ship was sound, and her dead and wounded did not affect her ability to man the ship. The Guerriere, however, had two of her masts shot off, and one of them finally fell into the sea, tipping the ship so violently that her cannon fell overboard. She was a mortally wounded, helpless hulk. Because of the heavy seas, it was impossible for the Constitution to transfer the British crew to safety after the battle, but Captain Hull stayed close to the sinking Guerriere through the night, and when morning brought smoother seas, he transferred the entire British crew to the safety of his own ship.

  Captain Dacres survived his serious back wound, and his official report to the British navy of his loss of the Guerriere included praise for Captain Hull for his care of the British crew. The statements appearing in this chapter by the wounded Captain Dacres to Captain Hull are very close to a verbatim quotation of how they appeared in his official report.

  For a definition of the nautical terms used herein, such as
frigate, topsail, quarterdeck, etc., see the glossary in Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 343–52.

  See also Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 51–54, and for a detailed diagram of the strange zigzag route of both ships, see page 53; Wills, James Madison, p. 115; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 93–94.

  Washington, D.C.

  Late September 1812

  CHAPTER XVIII

  * * *

  Eli Stroud sat rigid in an upholstered leather chair. Nearing sixty years of age, he was still uncomfortable in a black suit with a white ruffled shirt and black cravat, and black, square-toed shoes with silver buckles. Uncomfortable to be in a private library with four walls of books in the Executive Mansion, waiting for President James Madison. Uncomfortable to be in a teeming city, uncomfortable among politicians and government personnel who shared the common façade of wooden smiles and forced pleasantries in their desperate compulsion to be all things to all people. He moved uneasily in his chair, then slipped his hand to his inside coat pocket to touch the letter he had received from Billy Weems telling him that President James Madison had urgently requested him to come to Washington, D.C. There was no reason given.

  The sound of rapid footsteps made by small feet in the long hallway brought him from his chair, and he turned to face the door as President Madison entered the room—small, quick, his delicate hand thrust out to Eli.

  “Mister Stroud! I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have you here. How are you? Your family?”

  Reaching to shake the thin, small-boned hand, Eli nodded. “We are all well, sir.” The president’s handshake was surprising firm. “And you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.” Madison gestured. “Would you care to be seated?”

  They sat down in matching leather upholstered chairs on the same side of a large, ornately carved desk, and Madison did not waste words.

  “The war effort to the north of us is not going well. I’m sure you know of the surrender of General Hull a month ago at Fort Detroit.”

  Eli was leaned slightly forward, watching every expression, listening to every inflection. “I do.”

  “Since that time I’ve learned of some problems within our military forces up there that could become catastrophic. Are you aware of the strategy Congress approved for the conquest of Canada? Did Mister Weems inform you?”

  “In general, yes. So far as I know, it was intended that our military move north at Niagara to take Fort George and probably Queenston, and at the same time to move across the St. Lawrence to take Montreal.”

  “That is correct.” Madison moved in his chair and for a moment collected his thoughts. “The trouble we’re having concerns the officers that were appointed to carry out the plan.” He rose abruptly from his chair to stride around the desk, open a drawer, and draw out a large map. He spread it on the desk and gestured to Eli, and the two men hunched over the map. It took Eli just a moment to recognize the great north waterway—the five Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence drainage to the Atlantic Ocean.

  Madison set his finger firmly on the Niagara River, connecting Lake Erie with Lake Ontario, with Canada on the west side, and the state of New York on the east side of the river. At the north end of the river, British Fort George stood on the west side, facing American Fort Niagara on the east. The British town of Queenston Heights stood on sheer bluffs that dropped two hundred forty feet to the river, six miles to the south of Fort George. Opposite Queenston Heights, on the American side, was the village of Lewiston. At the south end of the river, British Fort Erie on the west side faced Buffalo, New York, on the east side.

  “The root of the problem is here,” Madison said, tapping his finger on Fort Niagara and then on Queenston Heights. “Let me try to explain it.” He paused to collect his thoughts and his words.

  “The man selected to take command of the entire operation is Henry Dearborn. He is a retired major general in the Continental Army and has served as secretary of war. Months ago he was ordered to coordinate attacks on the British Fort George on the Niagara River, and a second attack further east on Montreal.” Madison stopped for a moment, then tossed one hand in the air to let it drop. “Nothing happened!” he exclaimed. “We could not understand his failure to take action until we learned that he misunderstood his orders and thought his only responsibility was Fort George. Somehow, he thought someone else was to have responsibility for the attack on Montreal. Then we learned that on August 8 he had struck an armistice with the British, which gave him time to do some things he thought necessary.”

  Eli raised a hand in alarm, and Madison stopped as Eli spoke. “Dearborn made an armistice with the British?”

  Madison answered, “We were absolutely shocked! I found out about it and disavowed it altogether on August fifteenth, and ordered Dearborn to organize and execute the attacks according to his previous orders.”

  Madison stopped and watched Eli’s eyes until he saw understanding, then went on.

  “The man chosen to lead the attack at Niagara is General Stephen Van Rensselaer. He is the forty-eight-year-old commander of the state militia up there. He has had no combat experience, but he has brought in one of his kinsmen by the name of Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer to advise him. The kinsman has had years of experience in the Indian wars up there and served as adjutant general for the state of New York.”

  Again Madison paused, and Eli waited as the president chose his words.

  “The man who shares command of the military forces up there with Solomon Van Rensselaer is named Alexander Smyth. He is a general in the army and has command of all federal troops. I am sorry to say, General Smyth tends to be . . . vain, shall we say? Vain and a bit pompous. He has declared that he will not place himself under command of General Van Rensselaer under any circumstance for the reason that Van Rensselaer is a commander in the state militia and Smyth is in command of United States regulars. Smyth is insulted at the thought of subordinating federal troops to state control. The United States War Department ordered him to do so, but he defied the order.”

  Glancing at Eli, Madison saw the disbelief in Eli’s eyes. “You have it right, Mister Stroud. Our General Alexander Smyth defied the United States government.” He gestured, and the two men returned to their chairs before Madison went on.

  “Are you beginning to understand my concerns?”

  Eli nodded. “It sounds like you’ve got a few problems with your officers up there. Dearborn doesn’t understand his orders and thinks he can make armistices for the United States. Stephen Van Rensselaer doesn’t have the combat experience he needs, and he’s relying on Solomon Van Rensselaer. Smyth sees himself as superior to his commanding officer and the U.S. War Department.” Eli shook his head. “I doubt I’ve ever heard of a worse arrangement among men who are preparing to invade a foreign country.”

  Madison nodded. “You see the core of the problem, but I haven’t told you how it all came about. The one word answer to that is, politics. Dearborn is a Republican. General Van Rensselaer is a Federalist. The New York continental soldiers are largely Republicans. The New York militia are almost all Federalists. Need I say more?”

  A look of amazement crossed Eli’s face. “No. The Federalists are strong against the war and the Republicans are in favor of it. You say you’ve got a Republican general in command of a Federalist general, who is in command of both Republican and Federalist troops? Can anyone explain that?”

  Madison shook his head ruefully and repeated himself. “Politics. Now let me get to the worst of it. The army we have up there has become all too aware of the dissention among its commanding officers. A division is rapidly developing, with some troops supporting one officer, some another. Some are openly calling General Dearborn “Granny” because of his age and his health. He is sixty-one years of age and has become fat and complacent. There is talk that some soldiers will not leave United States soil to fight. Some predict a wholesale mutiny.”

  Madison drew and slowly exhaled a great breath. “That brings us to why I
’ve asked for you. I have two sealed documents, bearing my signature, to be delivered by someone independent of all the politics. I believe you are the man. The documents are orders for General Dearborn at Albany and for General Van Rensselaer at Fort Niagara. Then I will need you to stay at Fort Niagara for a short time to watch developments and return with a written report that I can depend on.”

  He stopped and his eyes were pleading. “Can you do this?”

  Eli stared at his hands for a moment. “How soon?”

  “Immediately. As you well know, winter in those north woods is approaching. Time is critical.”

  Silence held for a time while Eli considered. “I’m a civilian. I doubt military generals will respond.”

  “I have prepared a written order giving you full standing.”

  For long seconds Eli pondered before he answered. “I will try.”

  For a moment the air went out of Madison in relief. Then he stood and walked back to the map on the desktop.

  “What route will you take?”

  Eli asked, “Dearborn is in Albany?”

  “Yes.”

  Eli traced with his finger on the map. “I’ll likely go north on the Chesapeake, on over to the Delaware and up to Trenton, cross over to New York, and move up the Hudson to Albany and on north to Lake Champlain—the Richelieu River—the St. Lawrence—then west to Lake Ontario and on to the Niagara River. Much of it in a canoe. It’s longer, but faster than going cross-country.”