Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Ross turned back to Brooke and Cockburn as the squad started its prisoners back toward the main road.

  “Our scouting patrols have confirmed most of what that sergeant just said. I don’t think we’re going to meet substantial resistance until we reach Hampstead Hill.” He spoke to Brooke. “Colonel, go on back and bring the balance of our forces here as soon as possible. We’re moving ahead at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Each of them felt the rise of tension as Brooke mounted his horse. It was coming—the long-awaited collision between the stubborn Baltimore defenders and the British who had sworn to punish them.

  Ross and Cockburn called for their horses and gave their orders. With an advance scouting platoon moving ahead, they marched their command from the Gorsuch farm to Long Log Lane and turned west, toward Baltimore. They had covered two miles with Ross and Cockburn leading, mounted on their horses, when they heard the distant firing of muskets ahead.

  Instantly Ross reined in his horse and turned his head to listen, eyes closed, trying to read the sounds. The shots were sporadic at first, then quickly they were continuous and heavy.

  He turned to Cockburn. “The advance scouts are engaged up there! Follow me.”

  He jammed his spurs home, and his horse reached a full gallop in four jumps with Cockburn straining to catch up. Ross held the reckless pace for more than half a mile through the dense forest that flashed by on both sides of Long Log Road before he burst into the open with flat fields stretching for more than five hundred yards ahead. He saw the crimson coats of his regulars facing the forest, firing and reloading and moving slowly ahead. He saw the gun flashes of American muskets and rifles moving back in the darkness of the woods, and he hunched forward over the neck of his laboring mount as he came in behind his men with but one thought flashing in his mind—The Americans should not be there—what have we run into?—who are they?

  Then the sure knowledge hit him. Stricker! We’ve run into the advance guard of Stricker’s command! They were supposed to be back at Hampstead Hill!

  Startled, he pulled his winded mount to a stop near the front of the British line and amid the din of musket and rifle fire and the whining of bullets, shouted to the captain in command.

  “How many of them?”

  “I don’t know, sir. One minute there was nothing, and the next minute those woods came alive with musket and rifle fire.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Ross peered ahead at the American line. It was only partially visible. The greater part was indistinct shadows and the yellow winking of rifle muzzles in the dark density of the woods. Ross made his estimate of the numbers.

  “That has to be some of Stricker’s troops,” he shouted, “and there are too many of them! We’ll need a stronger force! I’m going back to bring up the main column!”

  With the captain watching, Ross started to turn his horse when the captain heard the hit and the grunt in the same instant and saw Ross take the shock as the rifle bullet punched into his chest. Ross buckled forward and pitched headfirst from the saddle and hit the ground rolling, and the horse reared and threw its head, pivoted and started to run back, away from the gunfire.

  For an instant the captain stood frozen, horrified. Ross was down! Their leader, down! In an instant he was on his knees beside Ross, and he rolled him onto his back. He saw the great red gout spreading on his chest, and he saw the mouth sagged open and the eyes half closed and then other men were clamoring around him, and they seized the limp body and lifted it and started toward the rear of the battle line. Soldiers on all sides stopped to stare as they passed, and those coming forward slowed and gaped in disbelief.

  Far to the rear, urging the main body of the command forward, Brooke saw the cluster of men and knew something was violently wrong and started forward on his horse. He had covered thirty yards when he passed Lieutenant George De Lacy Evans standing white-faced, nearly disoriented, and Evans called to him, “It’s General Ross, sir! He is fallen!”

  Ross! Fallen! Brooke pushed his way to the center of the gathered soldiers and stared down at the lifeless body with his brain numb, unable to accept it. He had no concept of how long he stood thus, staring down, before he raised his head and looked at those around him. The sweating soldiers were staring at him, and suddenly he realized that he was now their commanding officer!

  Instinct and British discipline came welling up inside Brooke. He licked at dry lips and heard himself giving orders to his officers as he pointed to them in succession.

  “Major, get a detail and move General Ross to the ambulance at the rear!

  “Major, go forward and tell the officers to prepare to march. Tell them that is what General Ross would expect of us, and we’re going to do it!

  “Captain, get my horse and my aides! I’m riding to the head of this command and we’re advancing at once!”

  With Brooke mounted and leading, the entire force moved forward, across the big open field near the Gorsuch farm, firing, reloading, firing, with the Americans steadily fading back into the woods in an organized withdrawal, returning fire, setting the farm buildings and haystacks ablaze to hinder the British, slowly giving ground while their deadly rifle fire continued knocking British soldiers to the ground.

  With the sun setting, Stricker continued the withdrawal to avoid a fight in the night, while purple storm clouds mounted up. In deep dusk a chill, steady rain came pelting, and by midnight the roads and fields were a quagmire of mud. Men in the trenches were standing ankle-deep in water and mud, huddled, watching, protecting as best they could their gunpowder from the rain.

  Stricker gave orders, and under cover of rain and the black of night, his force withdrew toward Hampstead Hill, cutting trees and dragging them into the road to slow the British and their caissons of mounted cannon. The rain held, and in the soggy gray of early morning both armies heard the first sound of cannon being fired from British ships anchored in the shallow waters off Fort McHenry.

  It was approaching midmorning when Brooke caught his first sight of the battle lines and the gun emplacements and the trenches Samuel Smith had established to defend the city, and Brooke stopped in his tracks. He turned to his aide, pointing.

  “I thought Stricker was the main force! He was not! There must be eleven thousand men ahead of us. Over a hundred cannon! Look at those roads and open fields we must traverse—mud! Our troops and cannon would mire down and become sitting targets! A daylight attack is out of the question. We’ll send scouts out to probe their lines for the possibility of a night attack.”

  Brooke gave orders, and his scouts moved off the road, into the woods bordering Philadelphia Road, slipping, slogging through the mud to within one mile of the American lines at the edge of the city. Dead ahead, through the rain, they could see the Americans in the trenches and count their cannon, and they saw the Americans studying their every move through telescopes. The British skirmishers moved to their right, and the Americans followed, then back to their left, and the Americans were there also—waiting.

  Without a word, the scouts returned to Brooke and made their report with the boom of the cannon on the British ships to the south sounding in the background.

  “Sir, there are thousands of them, and they’re watching every move we make. We moved twice, hoping to draw some of them out of their trenches, but they did not move. I believe they mean to make their stand right where they are. A daylight attack would be a serious mistake.”

  For a time Brooke paced, trying to conceive a plan to attack the American lines, and there was none. In frustration he reached the only conclusion he could.

  “We will remain where we are for now. We’ll have to wait until the fleet reduces the city’s defenses with their cannon. Then we will make our attack. Tell the men to get what rest they can and some food.”

  Brooke’s jaw was set as he peered west, toward the river and Fort McHenry. Where’s Cochrane? When will he take Fort McHenry?

  On board the Cockchafer, Cochrane lowered
his telescope and turned to his first mate.

  “Something’s wrong with Ross and his forces. Their guns are silent.” For a time he paced and considered before he turned and gave orders.

  “Have the fleet take the positions previously described for bombardment of Fort McHenry.”

  Semaphore flags went up the mainmast, and with the dusk coming on, the British gunboats began to slowly maneuver into battle positions. Through the night, with the rain dwindling, the lighter craft moved ahead of the heavier men-of-war into the shallow waters and avoided the log boom and the hulks of the ships sunk by the Americans to block the British advance. Carefully they came, silently taking their places in the dark of night. The frigates Seahorse, Surprise, and Severn with their brigs and tenders, remained five miles from Fort McHenry. The bomb ships Meteor, Aetna, Devastation, Terror, and Volcano, and the rocket ship Erebus, escorted by the brig Cockchafer, took up positions just over two miles from the fort.

  In the early dawn, with the rain thinned, the British vessels were all anchored in place. Cochrane drew his pocket watch and read the time. Exactly five o’clock am, September 13, 1814. Cochrane turned and nodded to his second in command, and the semaphores went up the mainmast with the message: “Fire for effect!”

  The guns of the bomb ship Volcano thundered, and the British commanders watched through telescopes while the heavy shot raised geysers forty feet high in the water, short of Fort McHenry. Again Cochrane gave orders, and the British fleet moved half a mile closer to shore, broadside to Fort McHenry, and again dropped anchor.

  When they were in place, Cochrane gave the order:

  “Commence firing!”

  Every gun in the British fleet facing Fort McHenry bucked and roared. The sound and the concussion shook foundations of buildings in Baltimore as the cannonballs and bombs and rockets streaked toward Fort McHenry, and the British seamen heard the distant explosions and saw the orange flames and black smoke erupt into the overcast clouds and the drizzle of rain as the bombardment ripped into the American defenses in and around the fort.

  The British were reloading when the guns of Fort McHenry blasted their answer, and the crews on the British gunboats hunched down behind their guns, waiting for the barrage to hit. Geysers leaped thirty feet in the air all through the British fleet, while some cannonballs shattered railings and tore through the riggings. Aboard the Cockchafer, Admiral Cochrane peered up at the black, ragged holes in the mainsail and gave orders.

  The entire British fleet hoisted anchor and moved back to a range where the American guns could not reach the British ships, but the heavy guns of the British bomb ships could still reach the fort.

  The prologue was ended. The time had come. Cochrane turned to his second in command. “Commence firing, and do not stop until Fort McHenry is utterly destroyed.”

  The semaphores went up the mainmast, and moments later every gun that could be brought to bear on the distant fort fired. Flames and white smoke filled the air, and the constant roar and concussion shook Baltimore in the distance. Rockets streaked through the air. Bombs detonated above the fort to leave ugly black splotches in the sky and blow chunks of white-hot metal onto everything below. Cannonballs tore the ground all around the fort while some dropped inside to smash anything they hit.

  Standing on the parapet of the fort, Major Armistead shouted his orders.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire! The British are out of range of our guns. Conserve your ammunition.”

  The American gunners took cover behind and beneath their guns and waited, heads bowed, teeth gritted, hands clapped over their ears to soften the deafening sounds of the heaviest bombardment any American had ever heard. Slowly, as the morning wore on, the skies over the fort filled with clusters of black smoke and the trails of streaking rockets and clouds of gray smoke from the fires, inside and outside the walls of the fort.

  In late morning, Admiral Cochrane extended his telescope and for a long time studied the distant view of the battered walls, searching for a white flag, but there was none. He shook his head in disbelief. What is Armistead doing?—He must know we can bring the entire fort and all his men to the ground—Why is he sacrificing them?

  On board the British bomb ships, the British crews were stripped to the waist, sweat dripping, ears ringing as they continued the loading and firing of the cannon. Gun barrels overheated, and heat waves rose shimmering. Seamen threw buckets of river water on the guns, sizzling, turning to steam instantly, to cool them enough that they would not ignite the next load of powder while it was being loaded. Gun crews were trotting into the hold of the ships to carry barrels of powder and rockets and cannonballs to the gun positions to keep the batteries supplied and firing.

  At midday, Cochrane again raised his telescope to study the fort, and again he shook his head. For a time he disappeared into his cabin to write a message, then returned to the deck to find his first mate.

  “Have that delivered to General Ross on shore, earliest.”

  “A message for General Ross, sir?”

  “Yes. I doubt we have ever mounted a bombardment as heavy as the one now in progress, and I see no sign of surrender. If we cannot take Fort McHenry, we cannot provide cannon support for General Ross if he attacks Boston. If the Americans in Baltimore are of the same resolve as those at Fort McHenry, taking the city might cost more in British lives than it is worth. I would like an opinion from General Ross.”

  “Yes, sir.” The first mate gave orders, and a longboat was launched. An hour later it returned, and the lieutenant in command reported.

  “Sir, General Ross is a casualty. He is dead.”

  Cochrane’s mouth dropped open. “Dead?”

  “Some time ago. Colonel Brooke has assumed command of the ground forces.”

  Admiral Cochrane took his written message, drew a line through the name of General Robert Ross and beneath it wrote, “Colonel Arthur Brooke.”

  “Deliver it,” he said. Less than an hour later the lieutenant again reported and handed a brief written message to Cochrane, signed by Brooke.

  “Unless Fort McHenry is taken, committing my command to attack Baltimore would be disastrous.”

  Cochrane stuffed the note inside his tunic, and the thunder of the cannon and the rockets continued without pause.

  On the deck of a sloop not far behind the ship Cockchafer where Cochrane stood on the quarterdeck, the Americans Francis Scott Key, John Skinner, and Dr. William Beanes paced the bow, sick in their hearts at the sight to the northeast. The air was filled with white cannon smoke from the British guns and the black trails of countless rockets. On the distant shore, Fort McHenry was lost in a cloud of dirty smoke, and the guns of the fort were silent. The minds of the three American prisoners were filled with their worst fears—Is the fort destroyed?—Are the defenders all dead?—or gone?—Have we lost Baltimore?

  There were no answers, and they continued to pace, sick with dread, while the British guns continued to roar.

  Inside Fort McHenry, Major George Armistead stood outside the door of his headquarters on the edge of the parade ground, where he had been through most of the day. Again and again, he turned to look at the powder magazine, a sizeable red-brick building with a wooden shingle roof, in one corner of the fort. It held three hundred barrels of gunpowder, and only he knew that it was not bomb-proof. If a British cannonball were to ignite the gunpowder inside, the explosion would blow Fort McHenry and everything, everyone inside, into oblivion.

  While he stood there, three huge mortar shells landed inside the fort. A woman water carrier, running with water to a waiting gun crew went down and did not move. An officer and the enlisted man next to him were blown ten feet, sprawling, still.

  Then, while Armistead watched, a cannonball smashed through the roof of the powder magazine, and for a moment Armistead stood in breathless horror waiting for the blast that would blow the walls of the fort into kindling and kill everyone in sight. A second passed, then another, then another, while Armistead sto
od staring, waiting, and then he began to breathe again and relief flooded through his entire system.

  The British cannonball was a dud! It had not exploded!

  Armistead ran toward the magazine, shouting to the nearest soldiers.

  “Move the gunpowder! Move it! Scatter the barrels in small numbers all over the fort!”

  Soldiers broke from cover, battered down the locked door of the magazine, and within minutes the gunpowder supply was stacked under cover at locations along all four walls.

  Toward the rear of the fort, a bandy rooster had escaped the partially destroyed regimental hen house, and through the smoke and the terrifying explosions of rockets and bombs, had scurried to an open ditch to take refuge. The disoriented bird was beyond all understanding of what had happened to its dull, repetitive life inside the fort. Gone were the morning reveille, the women gathering the eggs, the grain in the feed troughs, the daily drill of the soldiers on the parade ground— replaced by men and women running in all directions in what appeared to be total chaos, the thunder of rockets and exploding cannonballs, and the strike that had torn down part of the chicken yard, sending hens scattering—the world had gone insane!

  The colorful, feisty little bird had had enough! He scrambled out of the ditch and perched himself on top of the dirt bank, threw back his head, and crowed out his anger and his frustration for the world to hear!

  A dozen soldiers crouched behind anything that would protect them heard the sound and raised their heads in astonishment. A crowing rooster? In the midst of the worst bombardment in history?

  The little bird peered at them with his beady eyes and threw back his head and cut loose again.

  A soldier nearby grinned, and the man next to him chuckled, and the laughter spread.

  “Little friend,” one soldier called, “if we both survive this, you get an extra ration of grain.”