Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  It was past midafternoon when Admiral Cochrane again took his place on the quarterdeck of the Cockchafer and carefully glassed the fort. He could see little of the structure through the smoke and haze and the light rain that continued to fall. He collapsed his telescope and for a time was lost in thought. Then he raised his head and called orders to his first mate.

  “I believe we have crippled them. Order the Devastation, the Volcano, and the Erebus to close on the fort and increase their fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Minutes later the huge Devastation, followed by her two sister bomb ships, hoisted anchor and began their move toward the fort.

  Inside the fort, a gun crew on the parapet peered outward through the smoke and the light rain and shielded their eyes for a moment before they shouted to the nearest officer.

  “They’re moving in, sir. There!”

  Within moments the American gun crews, excited at the chance to fire back, had elevated their gun muzzles and were waiting with smoking linstocks for the order to fire. The officer in charge held up his hand, holding them off, while he gauged the distance, waiting, waiting. And then he dropped his hand as he shouted, “Fire!”

  Every American gun blasted, and cannonballs ripped through the rigging of the Devastation. The railing of the Volcano was smashed, and she was hulled twice. Immediately, the Erebus was near totally disabled and survived only because the frigate Severn came to tow her out of range. The Devastation and the Volcano turned about and retreated out of the reach of the American guns.

  It was clear to every man in the British fleet that whatever their bombardment had accomplished, it had not yet disabled the American guns, nor had it damaged the spirit and pride of their crews. The British seamen shook their heads in grudging admiration.

  Cochrane watched in disbelief. How many tons of rockets and shells and cannonballs had they rained on Fort McHenry? A thousand? How could a wooden fort withstand such an assault?

  In frustration, with deep dusk settling and heavy rain now pouring, he ordered landing parties to go ashore, probing, to be certain what Brooke was doing with his land forces and to determine whether or not the American lines defending Baltimore were still entrenched, waiting.

  The landing parties returned in the black of night, shot up, bearing their dead and wounded. Their report was clear. Brooke is not going to move without naval support. The American lines are in place, standing in mud up above their ankles, waiting, and full of fight.

  Cochrane gave the only order he could to the British fleet: “Continue firing!”

  The heavy British guns continued the bombardment. The muzzle blasts of their guns lighted up the night sky, and their rockets made fiery streaks through the rain, while the bombs bursting above the fort showed the gaping, splintered holes where the cannonballs had smashed through. But it was still standing!

  On the deck of the sloop behind the Cockchafer, soaked to the skin, squinting in the rain, the Americans, Key, Skinner, and Beanes, stood at the rail, transfixed, watching the British warships rain destruction on the fort as never before in history. They saw the yellow fire trails of the rockets and the white bursts of bombs over the fort, and they listened to the continuous roar of the big guns, staring, unable to believe that Armistead had not surrendered rather than face total destruction.

  They stood in the rain into the night, watching, hoping, while the British guns continued—their only evidence that the fort had not fallen. The rain came heavier, and still they paced and watched and listened, not knowing the fate of the fort, only knowing that the British bombardment was unrelenting. Time became meaningless. They were unaware that dawn was approaching until the first hint of the separation of the heavens from the earth came in the east, and then they could see the faint line of the horizon.

  Key stood frozen to the rail as the dull light strengthened in the rain, and he could see the dim outline of the fort.

  Was it still standing?

  Something fluttered above the black outline, and then it took form and shape, and Key gasped when he understood it was the flag! Armistead had raised the largest flag in the United States above the fort! Thirty-two by forty-three feet! Each of the fifteen stars was two feet from point to point, and the red and white stripes were clearly visible as the monstrous flag furled and unfurled in the breeze. Every man on every ship in the British fleet could see it, and to a man they understood Armistead’s message:

  “We’re still here! We’ve taken close to eighteen hundred rockets and bombs and cannonballs. We’ve been through the heaviest bombardment in naval history! We’ve lost men and women, and we’ve been hurt, but we’re still here, beneath the biggest flag in the country!”

  Key’s heart was pounding in his chest. He wiped at his eyes and then reached inside his coat for an envelope and a pencil, and began to write the thoughts that came flooding from deep within.

  Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

  What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,

  Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

  O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

  And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

  Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

  Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

  He paused for a moment, then catching sight again of the great flag waving over the fort, he continued to write, revising as he went, scratching out some words and rearranging lines, as the second stanza took shape:

  On the shore, dimly seen thru the mists of the deep,

  Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

  What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,

  As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

  Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,

  In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;

  ’Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh, long may it wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

  Reflecting on the heroic defenders of Baltimore, Key’s breast was filled with patriotic emotion, and he quickly penned:

  Oh, thus be it ever, when free men shall stand

  Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation!

  Blest with vic’try and peace, may the heav’n rescued land

  Praise the Pow’r that hath made and preserved us a nation!

  Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

  And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”

  And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

  In the gray of the rainy dawn, a longboat thumped against the hull of the Cockchafer, and a dripping lieutenant scaled the rope ladder up to her deck to face Admiral Cochrane and his first mate standing by.

  “Sir, a message from Colonel Brooke.”

  Cochrane unfolded the message, read it, read it again, and nodded to the young man. “You may return to Colonel Brooke. Tell him I understand. I will meet him at the place we landed his troops near North Point. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir. You are.” He turned and disappeared over the rail, back to his longboat.

  The first mate, with rain running in a stream from his hat, stopped the admiral.

  “Sir, did I understand we are meeting Colonel Brooke and his ground forces?”

  Cochrane stared at him for a moment. “You did. He has withdrawn. There will be no attack on Baltimore. He requests that we meet him to pick up his army at the place we put them ashore, far back near North Point. Give the orders by lantern code and by semaphores. All ships are to break off the engagement, weigh anchor, and follow us.”

  In the overcast and the rain, the lanterns of the Cockchafer blinked out the message while the semaphores went up the mainmast, and t
he British fleet weighed anchor. One by one the ships fell into formation to abandon all thoughts of taking Fort McHenry or Baltimore and followed their flagship back down the Patapsco River to North Point, where they were to load their army back onto the troop transports and leave, a dispirited and unsuccessful army and navy.

  True to his word, Admiral Cochrane ordered the release of Francis Scott Key, John Skinner, and Dr. William Beanes, and the three men made their way back to their homes.

  At Fort McHenry, when Major Armistead was certain the British retreat was real, the surviving occupants of the fort went into near hysteria with relief. Hats were thrown into the air amid shouts, and a spontaneous celebration lasted through most of the day, despite the rain.

  Half a dozen soldiers went to the ditch at the rear of the fort and found the bandy rooster. They returned him to the hen house with the rest of the chickens and very carefully rationed out two-days’ worth of wheat and grain, and chuckled as the colorful little fellow strutted about, pecking away at it.

  On the parapet, Major Armistead watched with a deep feeling of pride and satisfaction in what his people had done. They had defied the concentrated power of the mighty British army and navy, and with every expectation to be crushed, had by some miracle survived.

  His thoughts sobered and deepened—We turned them, and we hurt them. But they are not defeated. Where will they strike next? And with what force? Have we won the battle of Fort McHenry and Baltimore only to face the loss of the war?

  He straightened and started down the stairs to the shell-pocked parade ground.

  Only time will tell.

  Notes

  The names of all officers appearing in this chapter, both British and American, too numerous to list in detail, and the part each played in this entire episode, are accurate. The geographic locations listed and the names of those locations, also too numerous to list in detail, and the events that took place at those locations, are also accurate. The names of all ships listed, and their participation, are correct.

  The participation of Francis Scott Key and John Skinner in obtaining the release of Dr. William Beanes is correctly set forth. The two men were held prisoner during the bombardment of Fort McHenry for the reasons described. The poem written by Key as he saw the huge American flag waving above Fort McHenry the morning of September fourteenth became the American national anthem, “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  Mary Young Pickersgill was commissioned by General Armistead to create the huge flag that was flown above Fort McHenry in the stormy dawn hours of September 14, 1814, as proof the fort was still standing and had not surrendered. The flag was in fact thirty-two feet by forty-three feet, with stars two feet between the points. At a cost of $405.90, it was sewn by Mrs. Pickersgill and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Caroline, on the floor of the local malt brewery—the only place in town big enough for the work.

  Between fifteen hundred and eighteen hundred rockets, bombs, and cannonballs were fired by the British on Fort McHenry, the heaviest naval bombardment in history to that date.

  The rather humorous incident of the Reverend John Gruber of the First Methodist Church on Light Street in Baltimore, wherein he dismissed his congregation to take their places in the defenses of Baltimore on Sunday, September 11, 1814, with his prayer for King George, is accurate. His prayer for the king is a verbatim quotation.

  A carronade is a short, light cannon, with less range than the heavier guns.

  The comic incident of the little bandy rooster taking exception to the British bombardment, including the fact the little fellow survived and received a double ration of grain, is historically accurate.

  The miraculous incident of the British cannonball hitting the powder magazine inside Fort McHenry and failing to explode is also accurate.

  The reader is advised that despite its unusual length, this chapter presents only the core events of the British effort to take Baltimore. There were many, many more officers involved, and many more military skirmishes and events; however, including them would have extended and complicated this chapter far too much.

  See Whitehorne, The Battle for Baltimore 1814, pp. 159–94; Sheads, Fort McHenry, pp. 33–43, and see the maps, pp. 36 and 39; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 202–03; Wills, James Madison, p. 140; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 427–428; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 270–71.

  Boston

  Early December 1814

  CHAPTER XXV

  * * *

  Vapor trails followed Caleb Dunson as he opened the office door of Dunson & Weems Shipping Company, walked in, and closed it against the light sifting of snow just beginning on the freezing Boston waterfront.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. He laid a Monday morning newspaper on the counter and shrugged out of his topcoat and hung it on a peg beside the door.

  Matthew raised his head, glanced at his brother, said nothing, and continued with the paperwork on his desk. Adam nodded and went on with the papers on his desk. John Dunson muttered, “Good morning,” and reached for the next invoice.

  “Billy?” Caleb asked.

  Matthew answered, “Collecting the mail. Expecting a check from the Hubert Company.”

  Caleb walked to his desk with the newspaper in hand, laid it down, and stepped to the big black stove. He used a stick of kindling to open the door, thrust half a dozen sticks of wood inside, slammed the door clanging, and returned to his desk. “Seen the morning newspaper?”

  His brothers and nephew stopped work and looked up, waiting.

  Caleb spread the paper on his desk and tapped the article on the front page. “This business down in Louisiana—New Orleans,” Caleb continued, “Andy Jackson’s at it again. That war with the Creek Indians wasn’t enough. Now he’s in New Orleans getting ready for the British.”

  The other three men said nothing, waiting.

  “Seems Jackson got there December 1 on orders from the War Department. Took one look and concluded General Wilkinson had made his usual mess of things and set about getting it all back in order. Declared martial law. Shook the governor—Claiborne—and irritated the local gentry. He told them they were either with him or against him. No middle ground. Those against him would be treated as enemies. Things got a bit testy, but when he ordered all waterways to the city blockaded and cannon batteries established and a communication system to keep everyone alert to what was going on, they took a better view of him. Things settled.”

  Caleb stopped to glance at the paper, then went on.

  “The British sent a sizeable fleet loaded with troops from Florida to seize New Orleans, and they decided to take up a position on Lake Borgne—close to the city—on the east side—to do it. When they got there, they ran into five American gunboats and a hundred eighty-five men under command of Thomas Jones who had been sent by Jackson to scout out the British. The wind died, and Jones didn’t have oars to make a run, so he had to fight the whole British fleet. That lasted about ten minutes. Jones and all his men and ships were casualties or captured.”

  The other three men were listening intently.

  Caleb shrugged. “The shooting’s started down there. Jackson’s sent out a proclamation, requesting everyone—military, civilian, regulars—everyone—to help build the defenses. He’s determined the big battle he sees coming will not be fought in the city. It will be fought somewhere else, miles away.”

  Matthew interrupted. “Anyone responding to his proclamation? His request for help?”

  Caleb threw up a hand. “Everybody down there’s responding. Creoles, Cajuns, French, Spanish, blacks, whites, merchants, lawyers, old, young—everybody. The paper says they’re building a breastwork along the north side of the big Rodriguez Canal and digging cannon emplacements all along it. Runs about a mile, from the Mississippi to a swamp. That’s where Jackson intends making his stand.”

  Adam asked, “How many?”

  “So far, thousands.”

  Adam continued. “How many are military?”

  “The paper says bes
ides those who came with Jackson, he’s asked for riflemen from Kentucky and Tennessee. It looks like the governors of those states are going to send them.”

  Adam asked again. “How many?”

  “About fifteen hundred from Kentucky and Tennessee. That will bring Jackson’s fighting men to above four thousand.”

  Matthew broke in. “Who’s in command of the British forces?”

  Caleb consulted the newspaper. “Pakenham,” he said. “General Pakenham. His next in command are generals Keane and Gibbs.”

  “Where are they right now? How close to New Orleans?”

  “Pakenham hasn’t arrived yet. He sent a probing party ahead. He’s on his way.”

  “No indication of where the British intend making their attack?”

  “It’s clear they intend taking New Orleans. Where they mean to attack is not yet known.”

  Adam said, “Caleb, you met Governor Claiborne. Is he capable of handling all this?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No. Not even close. But that problem disappeared when Jackson declared martial law. He now overrides the governor, and Claiborne knows it. I think Claiborne’s even relieved about it.”

  John interrupted. “Is Jackson going to have to contend with Jean and Pierre Lafitte? I know Jackson once called the Lafittes and their whole band of pirates ‘infernal banditti.’”

  For several seconds Caleb reflected, while all three men stared, not moving, waiting in the silence.

  “I’ve thought about that. I don’t know. If Jackson does, he’s in trouble. The Lafitte brothers and their bunch are held in high regard by the whole town, or at least they were when I was down there—what, seven years ago? When Governor Claiborne decided to get rid of them he posted a reward for their capture. Five hundred dollars. Jean Lafitte laughed at it and put out his own posters, all over New Orleans. Fifteen hundred dollars for the capture of Governor Claiborne. The town laughed with Lafitte, and the governor backed down. Jackson better be careful. If he provokes the Lafittes, they could do some real damage.”

  Matthew asked, “How many in the Laffites’s crew?”