In Pursuit of the Essex

by Hughes, Ben;

  It seems that on this occasion Porter may have employed a punishment known as Running the Gauntlet. Although the Bostonian was reluctant to give specifics, British sources, who were to be eyewitnesses of Porter’s methods later in the cruise, recalled that it was ‘frequent[ly]’ used to discipline those guilty of theft. The punishment began with the Boatswain’s Mate giving the offender a dozen lashes. Afterwards, he was placed on a seat mounted on top of a tub and dragged between two rows of men ranged along the forecastle. Each was armed with a knotted rope and was obliged to beat the offender until he bled. Any man felt to be slacking was held to implicated in the theft and liable to the same punishment.25

  On 18 January the Essex spoke a Portuguese faluca from Rio. Her captain revealed that HMS Montague had sailed for Salvador twelve days before to engage the American force blockading HMS Bonne Citoyenne. ‘He could not tell me whether the admiral had gone to sea in her or not’, Porter recalled, ‘[but] was disposed … to give me all the information in his power … being fully impressed with the belief we were an English frigate, from the River … Plate.’ The next day a lookout sighted the pine-clad highlands of Saint Catherine’s to the south. That night, having ‘no person on board who knew anything of the place’ and reluctant to brave the island’s rocky shores in the darkness, Porter stood off and on and ran in the next morning under thick grey skies and intermittent rain. Porter thought Saint Catherine’s ‘the most delightful country in the world … Nothing can exceed the beauty of the great bay to the north’, he recalled. ‘There is every variety … Handsome villages and houses [are] built around … shores which gradually ascend in[to] mountains, covered to their summit[s] with trees … [are] in constant verdure … [The] climate [is] always temperate and healthy; [and] small islands [are] scattered here and there.’26

  The main town, Vila do Desterro, was a bustling settlement of ‘neatly built’ houses and a population of 10,000 which owed its prosperity to whaling. ‘Several brigs and schooners were lying’ at anchor as the Essex approached. A sailor tied to the side of the ship took soundings every few minutes. Heaving a lead-weighted line into the water, he reeled it in once it had struck bottom and used the scraps of brightly-coloured cloth tied at every fathom to keep track of the depth in the morning’s half-light. At 6.30 a.m., two and a half miles out from a small fort mounting twenty old, cracked guns, the forecastlemen let go the anchor. Afterwards, Downes was sent ashore. Braving squally winds, ‘he returned in about two hours with offers of civilitie … and a promise from the commander, that he would send an officer and a pilot … in the morning, to take the ship nearer in …’ The officials arrived at 9 a.m. Porter was obliged to kedge the Essex forward. A boat carrying an anchor tied to the frigate’s capstan rowed to the roads. The anchor was dropped and the ship hauled towards its destination. Passing the fort, the Essex fired a thirteen-gun salute, which the Portuguese returned, before dropping anchor in 6½ fathoms on a bottom of fine sand mixed with a strange blue gelatinous mud.27

  On the morning of 21 January the frigate’s 30-foot barge, 28-foot longboat and 18-foot yawl, began wooding and watering at a small, sandy beach opposite the fort. At daylight Lieutenant Wilmer went to town in the 22-foot cutter to meet the governor. With him were Lieutenant Gamble, the ship’s 22-year-old lieutenant of marines, Doctor Richard K. Hoffman, Midshipman Feltus and Purser Shaw. The latter had orders to procure beef, flour, bread and rum. The others took their fellow officers’ clothes ashore to have them washed by local women. Meanwhile, a swarm of bumboats surrounded the Essex, from which ‘well clad’ peasants and their ‘handsome’ wives sold ‘hogs, fowls, plantains, yams and onions’ at ‘the most extravagant prices’. Porter flogged a man ‘for paying a dollar for a dozen … rotten eggs’ before negotiating fixed prices and setting up a guard to ensure that no one paid over the odds. That afternoon several of the men and officers enjoyed swimming alongside the frigate before the weather turned foul, with heavy squalls and rain. At 2 a.m. Lieutenant Wilmer returned, ‘naked and shivering with … wet and cold’. Having paid their respects to the governor, Wilmer and his companions had set out from town in a hired boat only for it to be overturned in a squall. For four hours they had clung to the keel before being blown onto Great Rat Island where they managed to right her, but not before losing their clothes and $700-worth of supplies purchased in town.28

  The next day the ship’s cutter returned ‘with five puncheons of rum, fresh beef for two days, a quantity of onions and a few bags of flour’, but the meat was found to be spoiled and Porter ordered it thrown overboard. ‘Shortly afterwards’ a 25-foot shark appeared alongside with a quarter bullock clenched in its jaws. Horrified at the thought that many of them had been swimming in the same spot twenty-four hours before, the Americans watched in awe as the ‘voracious animal’ devoured its putrid prize. ‘A man would barely have been a mouthful for him’ Porter opined. On 24 January Captain John Helt and the other four prisoners taken from the Elizabeth were sent on shore. After signing ‘an obligation not to serve against the United States during the existing war, unless regularly exchanged’, they were allowed to take passage to Rio in a Portuguese schooner. The next morning, Porter heard a rumour of the capture of an 11-gun American corvette off Rio by the Montague. ‘She had been in company with a large frigate’, the Bostonian was informed, ‘and was [taken] off the Abrolhos shoal: the Montague had [since] left in pursuit of the frigate.’ The source, a Portuguese captain, also informed Porter, ‘that the day before he sailed, a British frigate and two brigs of war had arrived from England; that two American schooners had been captured and sent in there; [and] that a Portuguese brig of war had arrived from the Cape of Good Hope and brought intelligence that a British sixty gun ship was to sail the day after her for Rio’. Porter was appalled. It seemed that USS Hornet had been taken and USS Constitution was on the run. Even worse, if his Portuguese informant was correct, Rio, just a few days’ sail to the north with a fair wind, was teeming with British men-of-war. ‘Having strong apprehensions of being blockaded, if not attacked by a superior force, in this port … I determined on getting to sea … with all possible expedition.’29

  At 3 p.m. Porter fired a signal gun and raised the cornet indicating his intention to leave. That evening, as the frigate moved to the outer anchorage, Boatswain’s Mate Joseph Hawley and Seaman Allen Jones deserted and Porter dashed off an encrypted note to Bainbridge in which he hinted at his future intentions to pursue his ‘own course’. That night a double tragedy struck. At 8 p.m. Edward Sweeny, a 64-year-old veteran charged with taking care of the ship’s livestock who had ‘long been affected by a pulmonary complaint’, passed away and at 9.30 p.m., as the Essex stood out of the harbour, Able Seaman Samuel Groce fell 50 feet to the deck while loosening the mainsail. His skull split by the impact, Groce lingered on for several hours as the frigate sailed out of the harbour, before dying at 2 a.m. ‘His loss was much regretted by us all’, Porter noted, ‘as he was one of the best men we had in the ship and highly esteemed by everyone on board.’30

  At 4 a.m., as the lights of Saint Catherine’s dropped over the horizon, Porter steered southwards. With all hope of meeting Bainbridge extinguished, he now had the freedom of the seas. Porter’s orders clearly stated that in such circumstances he was to act according to his own ‘best judgement for the good of the service’. There was only one place he had in mind. For several years, Porter had dreamed of being the first representative of the US Navy to sail into the Pacific. Not yet fully explored, the region held an extraordinary allure: Spanish treasure, deserted islands and the legendary hospitality of the South Seas islanders. As far back as 1809, Porter had put the plan to paper. In a proposal penned to former President Thomas Jefferson capitalising on the recent success of Lewis and Clarke, he highlighted the importance of Pacific trade and colonisation and outlined his wish to lead a voyage of exploration. Jefferson was no seafaring Democrat, however and Porter’s pleas were ignored. Nevertheless, a copy of the letter was sent to Charle
s Goldsborough, the chief clerk of the navy, who forwarded it to the current President. Madison never replied.

  Porter wrote a second letter to Madison on 31 October 1810, but it too was ignored. Three months later he made an appeal to be granted command of a Pacific commerce raiding squadron in the event of war with Britain to Paul Hamilton, the Secretary of the Navy. Realising the value of the British South Seas whaling industry as well as the Royal Navy’s lack of warships in the region, Hamilton showed interest, but failed to follow up on the idea in the chaos brought about by the build-up to war. In October 1812 Porter made one final attempt. Shortly before sailing from Boston, Captain Bainbridge had solicited his thoughts on the best destination for the cruise they were about to embark upon. Porter proposed the Pacific, but Bainbridge was swayed by the council of another friend, William Jones, a Philadelphia merchant and the future Secretary of the Navy, and decided to cruise the shipping lanes of the Southern Atlantic instead. Even as he prepared to sail from the Delaware, Porter had refused to give up on his dream. Amongst the books and charts in his great cabin were copies of George Anson’s A Voyage Round the World and maps of the Galapagos Islands made by James Colnett in 1793 – strange choices for someone with orders to cruise off Saint Helena and southern Brazil. The possibility of following up on his ambition grew as the Essex had missed Bainbridge at one rendezvous after another. The Bostonian may even have been glad that his old friend had failed to materialise, thus allowing him to fulfil his long-standing dream.31

  Before committing to the hardships that a trip round the Horn was sure to entail, Porter ordered Purser Shaw to do a stock check. A total of 184 barrels of beef, 114 barrels of pork, 21,763lbs of bread and 1,741 gallons of spirits remained. With the men reduced to two-thirds allowance of meat and spirits and a half-allowance of bread, Porter had enough to last twenty-two weeks. ‘I estimated it would not take me more than two months and a half to get round to Conception’, he reasoned, ‘where I was confident of procuring an abundant supply of jerked beef, fish, flour and wine … [and] calculated, that the prizes we should make in the Pacific, would supply us with … articles of naval stores.’ These were considerable assumptions. Concepción, a port in southern Chile, along with the entire Pacific coast of South America, was controlled by Spain. Although not officially at war with the United States, as allies of Britain against France, Madrid was unlikely to look kindly on a Yankee captain’s requests for supplies. For a man with no knowledge of the Pacific Ocean, no allies in the region and no mandate for travelling there, Porter’s plan was a bold one indeed.32

  Chapter 3

  ‘A finer set of fellows’: Captain James Hillyar and the Right Revered HMS Phoebe, 27 December 1812 – 11 April 1813

  Captain James Hillyar of HMS Phoebe was a deeply religious man. Although prone to bouts of temper and a believer in the benefits of the lash, as a committed Evangelical he forbade swearing and a strict observation of the Sabbath was part of the Phoebes’ unbending routine. Ever since the 44-year-old had taken command, with the frigate patrolling the icy waters of the Baltic in July 1809, Hillyar had had his men mustered by divisions for divine service twice every Sunday. December 27th 1812 was no exception. At 11 a.m. and again at 4 p.m., as the frigate cut a solitary patrol across the ruffled grey swell of the North Atlantic, Boatswain’s Mate George Scargill, a 29-year-old Londoner who had joined the Phoebe two years before, ran across the spar deck, pausing at each hatchway to send a blast of his whistle echoing below. Roused from their hammocks, the men pulled on their slops: short, dark jackets with buttoning cuffs, woollen or fur ‘monmouth caps’ and loose canvas trousers waterproofed with tar. Scargill thrashed any loiterers with a rope’s end, roaming the decks until the entire complement of 217 officers, sailors, boys and red-coated marines had emerged. Only then did Hillyar remove his cocked hat, open his well-thumbed Bible and lead his men in prayer.1

  HMS Phoebe was a 926-ton Fifth Rate. One of four 36-gun frigates ordered by the Admiralty in May 1794, she had been designed by Sir John Henslow and built in John Dudman’s Thames-side yard. Her elm keel had been laid down sixteen months before her launch at the Deptford Wharf on 24 September 1795. Measuring 142 feet 9 inches from rabbit to rabbit on her lower deck and 38 feet 3 inches across, the Phoebe was a sleek, elegant craft, from the bust of the eponymous goddess riding at the bow to the bas-relief carvings surrounding the stern windows on the gun deck. Although not the fastest of the Royal Navy’s frigates, she was formidably armed: twenty-six long 18-pounders, measuring 8 feet from breech to muzzle and weighing 37 cwt, were mounted on her gun deck; twelve 32-pounder carronades stood on the quarterdeck alongside two launch carronades, an 18-pounder and a 12-pounder mounted on high-angle carriages which enabled aimed fire into an enemy’s tops; the forecastle had four long 9-pounders, to be employed during the chase, as well as two 32-pounder carronades, bringing the frigate’s total weight of broadside to 502lbs. In addition, four small guns on swivel pivots were mounted in the tops to rain grape down on an opponent’s decks. One, a 3-pounder, was situated in the foretop, two 3-pounders were in the main-top and a 2-pounder was mounted in the mizzentop.2

  The men gathered at the ship’s waist on Sunday 27 December formed one of the most experienced frigate crews afloat. A handful had been on board since 1797 when the Phoebe had captured the 36-gun French frigate Néréide, after an eleven-hour pursuit off Brest; half a dozen had witnessed the capture of the Heureux – a 22-gun man-of-war – in 1800 and the taking of the 40-gun Africaine, a particularly bloody encounter fought off Ceuta, north Africa the following year, that saw 200 Frenchmen killed and 143 wounded; at least twenty-nine had helped relay Nelson’s signals at the Battle of Trafalgar; a third had been on board when the Phoebe had cruised the Baltic, North Sea, Mediterranean and Caribbean between 1806 and 1809; just under half had witnessed Hillyar’s subsequent arrival and the refit at Plymouth when the barnacles and weed trailing from the frigate’s copper bottom had been burnt free; all but 100 had been present at the capture of the island of Java and the Battle of Tamatave, fought against three French frigates off the coast of Madagascar on 20 May 1811; and over three-quarters had been employed on convoy duty between Portsmouth and Quebec. Most of the Phoebes hailed from the British Isles. Several were from Liverpool. Ordinary Seaman Henry Quintenbarne, a 29-year-old who had been severely wounded at Tamatave, was one of a dozen Londoners. A handful had been born in Newcastle, Ireland or Scotland and a few foreigners stood out amongst the ranks. Landsman John Warren, one of the Trafalgar veterans, hailed from Barbados; Quartermaster John Williams, a 47-year-old tasked with aiding the conning and steering of the ship, had been born in Memmell, Prussia; Able Seaman John Francois was from Madagascar; Kyle Cuester, a 30-year-old member of the carpenter’s crew, was from Bremen; Able Seaman Ligorio Philips had been born in Tenerife; Sibidia Land and John Wilson were native New Yorkers; Peter Lewis was a Virginian and Henry Johnson, a 26-year-old able seaman, hailed from Baltimore. Most were in their mid-twenties. At fifty-two, the ship’s cook, John Dunn, was the oldest on board, while several boys and first-class volunteers were barely into their teens.3

  The Phoebe’s officers were united by a mutual faith in the benevolent workings of a stern, Protestant god. Hillyar was known throughout the Royal Navy for his faith; judging by his letters to his mother, liberally seasoned with references to ‘our blessed saviour’ and the ‘divine will … [of] the almighty’, First Lieutenant William Ingram, a 26-year-old ‘gentleman’s son’ from Owermoigne, Dorset who had previously served on HMS Amazon, was equally pious, while Third Lieutenant Nathaniel Jago, a reverend’s son from Devon, had packed several works on theology into his sea chest. Even the frigate’s lively young midshipmen and first-class volunteers showed a propensity for religion. Allen Francis Gardiner, a sallow-cheeked 19-year-old midshipman with close-cropped curly black hair, would go on to become a celebrated Protestant missionary, while Samuel Thornton Junior, a 16-year-old MP’s son, had faced an uphill struggle to persuade his mother
that he wasn’t cut out for the church.4

  The Phoebe’s religious streak also ran before the mast. Amongst her complement of forty-eight Royal Marines was William Morgan, a 31-year-old from Martley, Worcestershire. A weaver by trade, Morgan had toured Kidderminster as a Methodist preacher in his free time before industrialisation had driven him to join up in 1806. Initially, his attempts to rebuke the Phoebes for shipboard vice had met with little success, but since Hillyar’s appointment in 1809, the fortunes of the ‘Methodist Parson’, as his shipmates dubbed him, had begun to change. Promoted from a 3rd class to a 2nd class private, Morgan’s lower-deck prayer meetings gained official sanction and his breakthrough came with his conversion of James Weir, one of the frigate’s three maintop captains. Considered one of the most vicious characters on board, Weir’s reformation made a deep impression on his shipmates and he was immortalised following a hero’s death at Tamatave, a battle which saw six Phoebes killed and twenty-four wounded. On the voyage home, Morgan’s flock grew. He was promoted to corporal, one of four non-commissioned marines on the frigate and by 1813 twenty men were regularly attending his prayer meetings.5

  On Monday 28 December 1812, as a wan winter sun rose through the clouds, a lookout posted in the Phoebe’s maintop spotted a strange sail on the larboard bow. Taking to the quarterdeck, Hillyar levelled his telescope on the fleeing stranger and ordered Acting Sailing Master John Miller, a veteran of nine years who had previously served on HMS Protector, Pluto and Ariel, to make all sail in chase. Miller barked out a series of commands. The Captain of the Top, Stephen Laura, a 29-year-old from Falmouth who had taken part in the capture of the Néréide sixteen years before as a third-class boy, responded swiftly. Leading a dozen men up the rigging, he skipped out across the spars, removed the gaskets and shook the reefs out of the topsails. Down below the waisters, led by Matthew Ring, a 28-year-old from Waterford, Ireland, who had fought at Trafalgar, pulled the sails taut. The canvas billowed, catching a fresh, cold breeze blowing from the west, a fine spray flew across the deck and to the sound of ropes creaking as they tightened in the blocks, the frigate cut across the waves.6