by Hughes, Ben;
Twelve years on, on the eve of taking the Essex on one of the most remarkable cruises in US history, Porter remained as impulsive as ever. On 18 September 1812, whilst the crew awaited a set of replacement sails and rigging and a new bowsprit from the navy shipyard in Philadelphia, a traveller arrived at Chester bearing a challenge from Sir James Yeo, the commander of the 36-gun HMS Southampton, part of the British fleet blockading the coast. Yeo requested a ‘tete-a-tete anywhere between the capes of the Delaware and the Havanna’, a neatly-couched opening which was followed by the sort of tirade that Englishmen reserved for berating upstart Americans. After capturing the Essex, Yeo boasted, he ‘would have the pleasure to break [Porter’s] own sword over his damned head and put him down forward in irons’. Yeo’s ire was no doubt provoked by his opponent’s most recent success. While on a commerce-raiding cruise of the Caribbean on 13 August 1812, the Essex had captured HMS Alert, a 20-gun sloop-of-war, after an eight-minute exchange of fire – the first time the Royal Navy had lost a warship to the Americans.
His pride piqued, Porter promptly penned a reply. ‘[I] accept … with pleasure [Sir James’] polite invitation’, he began, ‘[and,] if agreeable … would prefer meeting near the Delaware, where, captain P. pledges his honor … [,] no other American vessel shall interrupt their tete-a-tete. The Essex may be known by a flag bearing the motto – FREE TRADE AND SAILORS’ RIGHTS; and when that is struck to the Southampton, captain Porter will deserve the treatment promised.’ As well as providing Porter with an opportunity to prove his own worth, accepting Yeo’s challenge would allow him to perform a reconnaissance. It would not be long before Porter received orders to set sail and his first task would be to avoid the British fleet blockading the eastern seaboard. If he was to get amongst the rich prizes of the Atlantic, Porter would first have to get past the Royal Navy.
On 27 September Porter hoisted the cornet to call all officers back on board. The hemp mooring ropes were thrown off and the Essex set sail. Working a large ship down a tidal river was no easy task. With a local pilot pointing out the Delaware’s hidden banks and shoals, the sounding lead was kept in constant use and the anchor carried cock-billed, hanging from the cathead, ready to drop into the muddy waters at a moment’s notice. Slipping by the port and naval hospital at New Castle, the frigate rounded Pea Patch Island, where local militia were constructing fortifications to repel any would-be British invaders, and swept on into the thirty-mile-wide Delaware Bay. Bracketed by extensive salt flats, it narrowed at the Capes before spilling out into the grey-blue depths of the Atlantic.
On 28 September the Essex spoke an American schooner. Her captain informed Porter ‘he had been captured a few days since off the South shoal of Nantucket by a squadron of seven British frigates & a Brig’. With a breathtaking disregard for secrecy which smacked of the arrogance bred by a decade of the Royal Navy’s unchallenged dominance of the seas, the British officers had explained that they were on the lookout for ‘Comm[odo]re [John] Rodgers … and stated their intention to run into Boston Bay’. After thirty-six hours they had liberated the schooner only for her to go on to meet another British frigate, the 36-gun Orpheus. After transferring some prisoners on board the American, the Orpheus’ captain explained that ‘he had spoke … [Captain Yeo’s HMS] Southampton a few days since bound to the West Indies with three prizes in company’. The Orpheus, which the American noted was badly in need of repair and with a crew both ‘weak and … sickly’, was bound for Halifax and the American later learnt that another frigate, HMS Belvidera, had been seen off Barnegat Bay to the north. Despite being denied his showdown with Yeo, Porter was delighted. With the entire British blockading squadron either sailing south for the Caribbean or north to Nova Scotia, it appeared his passage into the Atlantic would be without incident. His reconnaissance complete, Porter gave the order to tack. With a cry of ‘the Helm’s a lee’, the sailors hauled on the buff-coloured ropes on the windward side while casting loose those on the lee. The Essex swung through the water, the main and mizzen sails were braced to the opposite side, caught the wind and billowed taut, the foreyards were brought round to the same tack and the frigate picked up pace as she headed back upriver. Before his next cruise, Porter had some final preparations to make.5
On 6 October, back at Chester, Porter received the orders he had been waiting for. Commodore William Bainbridge, the Bostonian’s friend and the newly-appointed commander of USS Constitution, directed Porter to join a cruise to the South Atlantic. ‘I shall sail from … [Boston in convoy with the sloop-of-war USS Hornet, under Master Commandant James Lawrence,] by the 25th [October]’, Bainbridge’s letter began, ‘and shall shape my course in the most direct way for the Cape De Verd[e] Islands … to fill up my water … I shall leave there at furthest by the 27th November and hope I shall meet you there.’ After detailing several possible points of rendezvous, Bainbridge explained that he intended to follow the Brazilian coast before cruising the shipping lanes of the South Atlantic in search of British East Indiamen.6
News of the Essex’s imminent departure prompted a final flurry of activity. The new sails and bowsprit ordered from Philadelphia were brought on board along with miles of hemp cordage which the crew used to reset the rigging, splicing, worming, hitching and bending the ropes into place, while Carpenter Waters and his assistants drilled holes into the hull above the gun-deck to take the cleets from which the men’s hammocks would swing. Typically, a frigate’s crew slept on the berth deck, but Porter reasoned that ‘permitting the men to sleep on the gun deck with the ports open … [would] contribute … to the preservation of their health’.7 Whilst keeping his precise destination a secret, Porter ‘gave the officers and men intimation of the probable length of [the] … cruise, in order that they might supply themselves with such comforts as their means would admit of’. The men made modest purchases: an extra stock of fresh fruit or vegetables or some new clothing, while the officers, having been advanced three months’ pay, could afford somewhat more. Midshipman William Feltus, the fifteen-year-old son of a New York rector who had joined the Essex on July 1, bought a journal to keep a daily record of his adventures, while acting Fifth Lieutenant Stephen Decatur McKnight, a short-sighted native of Philadelphia and the spitting image of his famous uncle, had his writing desk stowed in his six-foot square cabin on the berth deck.8 Several of the crew also smuggled some New England rum on board. Chief amongst them, no doubt, were the regular offenders: Third Lieutenant James Wilson, the ship’s senior drunk, Quarter-Master James Rynard, a troublemaker with mutinous leanings, and Lawrence Miller, the ship’s gunner whose inveterate thirst would eventually result in his arrest.9
Porter spent his last nights in Chester with his family. Following his wedding to the seventeen-year-old Evalina in 1808, his father-in-law, William Anderson, a Republican Congressman, had presented him with a comfortable, three-storey stone mansion near Welsh Street as a wedding gift. Porter had renamed the house ‘Green Banks’ for its proximity to the tree-lined Delaware and it was now home to the couple’s three year-old son, William David and their daughter, Elizabeth, a sickly toddler of twenty-one months affectionately nicknamed ‘Little Rib’. Porter’s other ward was James Glasgow Farragut. Following the death of the boy’s mother from Yellow Fever, Porter had taken him under his wing while commanding the naval station at New Orleans. A tough yet charismatic eleven-year-old, Farragut had been serving on the Essex as a midshipman since the age of nine. He was said to be made up of ‘three pounds of uniform and seventy pounds of fight’.10
While the Essex had performed admirably in her first cruise of the war, Porter still harboured doubts about her sailing abilities. With a top speed of 11.4 knots or 8.4 knots when sailing close-hauled to the wind, she could outrun the majority of ships she was likely to encounter, but would lag behind the fastest frigates. The Royal Navy’s HMS Endymion had recorded an exceptional 14.4 knots, while USS Constitution was capable of 13 knots. On the positive side, despite her relatively small size, the frigate
was strongly-built. She was a capacious ship, with an ample hold and proved an easy sea-boat. She was weatherly, making little leeway when close hauled and handled well, despite being a rather heavy pitcher in high seas. Of more concern was the Essex’s armament. Besides three long 12-pounders mounted on the quarterdeck and forecastle and another three on the gun deck, her main armament was forty stubby-barrelled, 32-pounder carronades. Known as ‘smashers’ due to the punch they packed at close range, carronades were hopelessly inaccurate at distance. As such, although the ship’s nominal weight of broadside was an immense 676lbs, only 36lbs of those could be deployed at long range. If the Essex was disabled in the early part of an action or encountered a highly-manoeuvrable opponent armed with long-barrelled guns, she was sure to come off second best. Accordingly, on 14 October Porter wrote to the Secretary of the Navy, Paul Hamilton, requesting a transfer to USS Adams. Citing his ‘insuperable dislike to Carronades and the bad sailing of the Essex’, he claimed she was ‘the worst frigate in the service’. It was an exaggeration that Hamilton rightly ignored.11
The Essex’s sailing master, John G. Cowell, was also feeling underappreciated. A father of two of military stock from Marblehead, Essex County, Massachusetts, Cowell was suffering from the perennial sailing master’s gripe. At twenty-six, he was older than most junior lieutenants and had more seafaring experience. Although he might not have been so refined in manners and, with his gold hoop earring and old-fashioned braided queue, resembled those before the mast as much as those behind it, Cowell considered himself a superior seaman and of more value to the service. Nevertheless, lieutenants received better annual compensation: $624 when the value of their rations was factored into the equation, as compared to the $552 Cowell received, a portion of which he no doubt sent home to Abigail Lindsey, his wife of three years. Even more vexing from a sailing master’s point of view, was the fact that the position was a dead-end job. Only a minority rose to the rank of master commandant, whereas lieutenants, often blessed with having been born into a ‘superior’ family and possessed of more influence, enjoyed the fast track. During wartime when the rates of attrition rose, many could expect to achieve their captaincies. Such perceived injustice worried sailing masters’ pride and formed the basis of Cowell’s complaint to Paul Hamilton, written in the gloom of his cabin on the berth deck on 24 September 1812. ‘The many mortifications incident to the situation of master loudly demand that I should aspire to [a] more dignified situation’ he began, before requesting promotion. Though it appears that Hamilton chose not to reply, Cowell would amply demonstrate his professionalism during the forthcoming cruise and eventually achieve his ambition.12
During their last few days in Chester, the Essexes were in buoyant spirits: having recently been paid a proportion of what they were owed for their Caribbean prizes, they had money in their pockets; they enjoyed their captain’s energy and drive and trusted in his abilities to enrich them further at the cost of the hated Royal Navy. Volunteers from the seafaring communities of New York and New England, the Essexes had long resented Britain’s heavy-handed treatment of American merchantmen. Many would have had their ships seized by the Royal Navy and some, like Porter himself, had fallen foul of British press gangs. Others may have spent time on board the infamous ‘hell-ships’, hulks moored in New York’s East River which had housed American prisoners during the Revolutionary War. Such deep-rooted animosity no doubt led to the crew’s almost whole-hearted embrace of the declaration of war in mid-June 1812. ‘Captain Porter [had] called his crew together’, a local journalist had recorded, ‘and … received … three hearty cheers.’ The feeling was not quite unanimous. When called upon to make an oath of allegiance, John Irvine, the ship’s sailmaker, had refused. A native of Newcastle upon Tyne, Irvine was unwilling to fight his countrymen. Disgusted, the crew persuaded Porter to let them tar and feather the ‘traitor’ after which he was bundled ashore. The incident blew into a full-scale riot and the police were forced to lock Irvine in the local jail for his protection. Although Porter was chastised by Naval Secretary Paul Hamilton, he confirmed the Bostonian’s acting promotion to captain two days later. Irvine’s disgrace also served to bond the frigate’s crew.13
The men of the Essex were a heterogeneous mix. Volunteers to a man, unlike their peers in the Royal Navy, who were obliged to serve until dismissed, each had signed a twelve-month contract, on the expiration of which they were free to leave. Fifteen boys were on the ship’s muster. Employed as officers’ servants (‘shoe boys’) or to brave the slender high yards of the tops, some were no more than twelve, while the eldest man on board, Ordinary Seaman Edward Sweeny, was a veteran of ‘upwards of sixty-four’ years of age. Several of the crew were related: there were two Tuckermans, Ordinary Seamen Matthew and Bartholomew; four Millers; three Whites; three Browns; two Gardeners; and no less than seven Smiths. Although the vast majority were American, with a hard-core of original hands hailing from Essex County, Massachusetts, John Witter, a marine private in whom Lieutenant Gamble placed considerable faith, was from Germany and a significant proportion was British. Some had deserted the Royal Navy. Others had joined from the merchant marine seeking the higher wages available on the US seaboard. As capture would mean a traitor’s death, most were careful not to leave an official record of their roots, but at least one, Able Seaman Robert White, a man whose rating revealed that he had over seven years’ experience, identified himself as an Englishman, while seven others, including Boatswain’s Mate Thomas Belcher, whom Porter thought ‘a consummate villain’ and a young Scot named John Glasseau, were British. Several others were of African-American origin. Pete Almy was employed as a ‘powder monkey’ on the gun-deck and Henry Ruff was the ‘negro boy’ of Second Lieutenant James P. Wilmer. There was also variety of experience. While the majority had served with Porter for under a year, several had fought in the Barbary War at the turn of the century, a handful had seen action in the Quasi-War against France and one old seaman, Levy Holmes, whose bow-legged gait and tar-stained hands betrayed the number of years he had spent at sea, had served aboard USS Trumbull in the Revolutionary War.14
On 21 October, on the advice of Surgeon Robert Miller, who himself had advanced liver disease, Porter decided to leave nine of his crew at the naval hospital in New Castle. They were suffering from a variety of complaints: William Stanwood, one of eight quarter-gunners, John Francis, a carpenter’s yeoman and John Anderson, a seaman, had sexually-transmitted diseases; William Hubbell, one of nine supernumeraries, and James Wallace and Charles Frederic, both seamen, were suffering from tuberculosis; another seaman, Peter Johnson, complained of a ‘rupture’ caused when he had been working at the New York Naval Yard in the summer; Charles Smith, seaman, had chronic constipation caused by a perineal fistula; and John Smith complained of a ‘diseased testicle’. The final chronic case, William Klaer, a seaman with liver disease, ‘through mistake’ remained on board.15
On 23 October the Essex set sail. Slipping downriver in incessant rain, the frigate came to at Morris Liston’s, an early settler’s house at the mouth of Cedar Creek on the edge of Delaware Bay. On the 24th and 25th, as Midshipman Feltus noted in his new journal, ‘nothing remarkable happened’, but the following morning Porter, who had stolen a few extra days at home with his family, came on board in a ceremony known as ‘Tending the Side’, part of the ritual that helped establish the captain’s semi-regal position on board ship. Flanked by saluting men who doffed their caps reverently, Porter climbed the gangway – rigged with decorative side ropes – before being welcomed by the frigate’s lieutenants and midshipmen and taking up his customary position on the quarterdeck, the entire windward side of which was reserved for his solitary promenade. In later years, Porter would compare his role to that of a ‘little tyrant’. A navy captain ‘dare not unbend’, he opined, ‘lest he should lose that appearance of respect from his inferiors that their fears inspire. He has, therefore, no society, no smiles, no courtesies for or from anyone.’ It was a lonely r
ole and one that heaped considerable pressure and responsibility upon its holder.16
Porter’s first task was to establish standing orders for the cruise. Not knowing when he would next resupply, he cut salt provisions by one-third and the bread ration by half. The latter was replaced by ‘half a pound of potatoes or the same quantity of apples … in regards to the health of the crew’. The candle ration was reduced by 50 per cent and an ‘economy established respecting the consumption of wood and the expenditure of the ship’s stores’. Porter instructed John R. Shaw, the Essex’s Annapolis-born purser whose job was to supervise the men’s provisions and balance the ship’s accounts, to keep a full record and assured the men all losses would be reimbursed when they next arrived in port. This, a general pardon issued for all previous misdemeanours and the fact that the rum ration remained untouched, meant that ‘not a murmur [of discontent] was heard from any person on board’. Orders were also issued regarding the consumption of fresh water and the crew were reminded ‘to lose no opportunity of catching rain-water for the stock’. Guidelines were laid down for personal hygiene and cleanliness of quarters and daily fumigation was ordered to take place ‘in every part every morning, by pouring vinegar on a red-hot shot’. Acting Fourth Lieutenant William B. Finch was tasked with maintaining the berth-deck ‘in a cleanly and wholesome state’ and all officers were reminded to pay ‘the strictest attention’ to matters of discipline. The men were warned that the first to be punished would receive three dozen lashes, but Porter also expressed a hope ‘that punishment during the cruise would be altogether unnecessary’. He promised that those who performed exceptionally would be rewarded and that the hours of 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. would be reserved for leisure and amusement ‘when the duties of the ship would admit’.17
On 27 October, with the marines sweating at the frigate’s double capstan, the anchor was raised and the Essex got under way. At 3 p.m. the river pilot was discharged. He took a bag full of letters from the officers on board, but Porter confiscated those written by the men in case any happened to reveal sensitive information. On the 28th the Essex passed between the Capes and entered the Atlantic Ocean. That afternoon the wind swung round to the west driving the frigate towards the shoals of Chincoteague. The next morning the wind ‘increased to a gale’, the topmen raced up the standing rigging and reefed the topsails to reduce the strain on the masts. With the Essex rolling violently and waves breaking over her gunwales, the berth-deck, level with the waterline, was repeatedly flooded. On 30 October the wind abated, the topsails were unfurled and the day ended clear. Porter ordered all clothes and hammocks brought up for airing and the berth-deck was scrubbed clean and swabbed dry. That afternoon, the gun crews were exercised. ‘We found the powder in several guns wet’, Porter recalled, ‘all of which we reloaded and more carefully secured.’ The captain had learned the importance of combat-readiness at an early stage of his career. Drill with the great guns had regularly punctuated Captain Truxtun’s Caribbean cruises and Porter now mirrored his old mentor’s insistence on ‘every Article, at any Time, Night or Day, be[ing] ready for Action in a Moment’s warning’.