Sure enough, the British arrived with reinforcements and threatened to have their native tribe allies slaughter the Americans at Fort Detroit, where Hull’s daughter and grandchildren were living. Soon Hull began displaying erratic behavior. Perhaps he was drunk or having a nervous breakdown, but his speech was slurred and he crouched in corners as if insane. Then suddenly, without consulting his officers or putting up a fight, he surrendered Fort Detroit on August 16, 1812. Hull’s surrender was as humiliating as it was devastating.
Hull was court-martialed and sentenced to death. Madison commuted the execution because of the general’s honorable service during the American Revolution.
Earlier in the spring of 1813, Armstrong had given Wilkinson a promotion to major general and ordered him to leave New Orleans and come to Washington City for further orders to go north. After all, why bother with continuing a large force in the South? Thanks to Wilkinson’s success against the Spanish, the fort and bay in Mobile now belonged to the Mississippi territory and was on track to become a new state. Armstrong needed Wilkinson in Canada.
“Why should you remain in your land that grows the laurels?” Armstrong had written to Wilkinson. He’d reminded him of their joint service together during the American Revolution. They had been brothers in arms at the Battle of Saratoga in New York, a key turning point in the Revolutionary War.
“I speak to you with the frankness due to you and to myself,” he concluded, “and again advise, come to the North and come quickly! If our cards are well played, we may renew the scenes of Saratoga.”
For months Wilkinson had been aware of the government’s desire to send him north. As he had complained to James Monroe, who was the acting war secretary until Armstrong assumed office, “My constitution will not bear a Northern climate, and . . . I do conceive my rank and service give me claim to a separate command.”
Because he had taken possession of West Florida, Wilkinson did not receive Armstrong’s instructions until May 19, when he had returned to New Orleans from Mobile. The exhausted and testy Wilkinson had written Armstrong that the delay had cost them precious time for a successful campaign in Canada. He was now facing a “sultry fatiguing, dilatory journey” that would “retard my arrival on the theatre where I am destined to take a part.”
Indeed. Mid-June had arrived and Wilkinson was nowhere to be found in Washington City to receive his orders and march north. Armstrong fumed at Wilkinson’s snub. He needed to instruct him to mount an attack in Canada before the fighting season closed. Time seemed to be ticking too fast for Armstrong’s myopic plan to succeed. He was far less focused on word that the British were nearing Norfolk. After all, wasn’t a Virginia seaport Navy Secretary Jones’s turf?
CHAPTER SIX
Torpedo
“The boats of the Victorious picked up . . . one of the powder machines, commonly known by the name of Fulton’s, made to explode underwater and thereby cause the immediate destruction to whatever it may come in contact with,” Cockburn wrote on June 16, 1813, from his ship in the mouth of the Chesapeake.
They had found Elijah Mix’s torpedo.
“This was no doubt destined for the Victorious or some other of our ships here. The American government intending thus to dispose of less by wholesale 600 [British sailors] at a time, without further trouble for risk,” Cockburn complained, sarcastically calling the effort laudable.
Little caused Cockburn to flinch. Though his father, Sir James Cockburn, came from a wealthy Scottish landholding family, Admiral Cockburn was one of the most experienced seamen in the Royal Navy. His upper-middle-class mother was the daughter of a reverend who had tutored King George III when he was a boy.
Debts and poor decisions, however, had sent Cockburn’s parents into poverty. The second of five boys and three half-sisters, George had no inheritance prospects. Already familiar with sea life, at age ten he began working as a captain’s servant under the patronage of the admiralty’s Lord Hood. Four years later, at age fourteen, he had entered naval service. By nineteen he’d become a lieutenant and received a commission as a third lieutenant a year later.
Though his marines had found only one torpedo that June day in 1813, they had rightly assumed that the Americans had built more than one. “I think it extremely probable others of a similar description have passed out to sea unobserved,” the admiral observed.
Concealing his fear of a torpedo killing hundreds of his men, Cockburn kept his cool. He noted that because this weapon drifted as easily as a cut buoy, it could have destroyed an American ship as haphazardly as a British one.
He took comfort that if an atrocity like this had happened, the U.S. government, which boasted of “unvaried examples of humanity,” would be blamed for its savage tactics.
“I have now closed with His Majesty’s ships towards Hampton Roads, which will enable the enemy to try further humane experiments,” he added sarcastically.
Cockburn was resolute. Once Warren returned, they would attack Craney Island and Norfolk. Little did he realize that soon his men, not the Americans, would be leaders of the most atrocious assault on the Atlantic coast since the start of the War of 1812.
Latrobe had written of Mix’s mission, “If the enterprise miscarries it will be a consequence of its becoming the subject of conversation.”
Conversation and loose lips had not sunk Mix’s mission, however. Latrobe had written to Mix, “I watch the decline of the moon with more anxiety than I ever watched her increase.”
Though Mix’s timing with the tide and a dark moon had been good, his first attempt was unsuccessful because he had hooked the howser or thick tow rope of the British ship, a seventy-four-gun, instead of the rudder. Realizing his mistake but fearing detection, he had fled and left the torpedo behind, which the British found.
At this point Mix needed more money, which led Latrobe to give him a loan. Perhaps the next month, in July, when the moon grew dim, they would succeed.
Much was on the president’s mind that June 1813. Madison swiftly and succinctly responded to the Senate’s request. His annoyance flew faster than his pen: “The Senate are informed that the office of the secretary of the treasury is not vacated.”
Why didn’t they trust him? He’d deferred to their authority to consider the nomination. Why couldn’t they understand? He couldn’t control weather and risk waiting too long to send his peace commissioners to Russia. Now mischief makers in the Senate were using details to thwart a very important decision that was crucial to peace. What should he do? Madison decided to explain that the Treasury duties had been temporarily assigned to the navy secretary.
A clerk read Madison’s reply to the Senate, which responded by sending the issue to a special five-member committee. King, of course, was one of the members.
In addition to Senate meddling, Madison was also worried about the English government’s response to the Russian czar’s mediation offer. He saw plausible reasons that Emperor Alexander’s negotiation might lead to peace. Russia was “the only power in Europe which can command respect from both France and England.” He was correct.
When it came to the mediation, Madison’s deepest worry was “whether England will accede to the mediation, or do so with evasive purposes.” While the Senate questioned Gallatin as a commissioner, Madison correctly feared that the British government would torpedo the opportunity to treat for peace by rejecting Russia’s mediation offer.
As worried as he was with state business that June, Madison was also proud of his wife for consenting to send her son Payne as an aide to Gallatin in Russia. He knew that the decision had required much courage on her part. Though he wasn’t Payne’s biological father, he treated him as such because he loved Dolley so much.
Many saw the Madisons as opposites in almost every way. One visitor described the president this way: “Mr. Madison reminded me of a schoolmaster dressed up for a funeral.” In contrast, Dolley was the queen of hearts.
Some saw Mrs. Madison’s appearance and manner of dres
sing to be a contradiction with the modesty of many Quakers. The night Mr. Hallowell, an old Quaker friend, visited the President’s House, she raised her wine glass to her lips, bowed to her guest, and said cheerfully: “Here’s to thy absent broad brim, Friend Hallowell.”
“And here’s to thy absent kerchief,” he’d teased of her handsome evening gown that exposed her shoulders. He knew his friend’s contradictions well. A modest Quaker she was not. A modern dresser in the low cut Empire style she was.
Dolley usually wore a plain housedress with a Quaker cap during the day, but chose stunning evening wear fitting a queen. Her friends often sent her turbans, hats, and other wardrobe niceties from Baltimore and Philadelphia. Phoebe, ever on the look out in Philadelphia, wrote Dolley whenever she found something likable. “Some splendid trimmings for dresses have just been opened for the brides they are about ten dollars a piece—If you would like some, I will endeavor to select the handsomest.”
Dolley also sought fineries from clothing shops in Paris. Early in the administration, she wrote her friend Ruth Barlow: “Oh! I wish I was in France with you, for a little relaxation. . . . I will ask the favor of you to send me by safe vessels—large headdresses a few flowers, feathers, gloves and stockings [black and white] or any other pretty thing, suitable to an economist and draw on my husband for the amount.”
In short, Mrs. Madison was a Quaker by day and queen by night. Though her extravagant style bucked the Quaker tradition of plainness and simplicity, she embodied Quakerism in one distinct way. She cordially welcomed her husband’s political enemies to her house, even if she privately didn’t like the aspersions they cast on James.
One reporter attending a drawing room for the first time observed, “There were many members of both houses of Congress present, both of the majority and minority, and I was told, some of the most acrimonious ones.”
Each Wednesday, the Madisons held open parties that didn’t require invitations. This gave both Federalists and Republicans a chance to talk in a relaxed atmosphere. Guests voluntarily risked sharing company with their opponents. The Madisons’ approach was a contrast to the entertaining style of predecessor President Jefferson, who wouldn’t invite members of opposite political parties to the same parties at the President’s House. In an era where duels between angry men were common—including Jefferson’s vice president Aaron Burr, who killed former Treasury secretary Alexander Hamilton in an 1804 duel—the Madisons saw an opportunity to change the culture of Washington. By mixing socially, politicians got to know each other as human beings, not as political enemies. They could talk politics, but social graces prevented them from getting too hot in the presence of ladies and cool ice cream.
“Everybody loves Mrs. Madison,” Speaker of the House Henry Clay legendarily said.
“That’s because Mrs. Madison loves everybody,” she quipped.
By making everyone feel welcome in her house, Dolley nurtured good will for her husband. Mrs. William Seaton, sister of Joseph Gales, the editor of the National Intelligencer, made a similar observation: “I would describe the dignified appearance of Mrs. Madison, but I could not do her justice. ’Tis not her form, ’tis not her face, it is the woman altogether, whom I should wish you to see.”
Though her clothing reflected sophistication, her character was warm and approachable: “But her demeanor is so far removed from the hauteur generally attendant on royalty, that your fancy can carry the resemblance no further than the headdress.”
Her genuine love drew people to her. “I am by no means singular in the opinion, believe that Mrs. Madison’s conduct would be graced by propriety were she placed in the most adverse circumstances of life.”
Little did Mrs. Seaton know that her words were prophetic. The best way to understand Dolley’s depth and complexity was to watch her handle pressure. Adversity would soon bring out the best in her.
Dolley was not happy about the special session. In a letter to Edward, she confided that her servant Mitchell had abandoned them, forcing her to take on his duties, which created many new demands on her.
She had written on June 10 that “the city is more than ever crowded with strangers!! My head is dizzy.” In an earlier letter to Phoebe, she had expressed a similar anxiety about staying in Washington, which attracted disease-carrying mosquitoes to the marshy Potomac River, instead of going to their Virginia mountain home for the season. “But this sad summer session, breaks up all my plans, unless it is made short by the fear of our unfinished canal or some other source of evil.”
An epidemic was such an evil—as well as a visit by Cockburn.
Though she loved the vibe and vibrancy of a swinging social life that came when members of Congress were in town, she also often felt its downside: politics on Capitol Hill. “The mornings are devoted to Congress, where all delight to listen, to the violence of evil spirits—I stay quietly at home—as quietly as one can be, who has so much to feel at the expression, for and against their conduct,” she had written to Phoebe of her observations.
With all that was going on there, and possibly a sense that James was feeling a little sickly, she needed her cousin Edward to return more than ever.
One piece of news, however, had encouraged her. Payne was doing well, in both health and spirits, as he had communicated in a letter. “I received one from my dear Payne, he is charmed with his voyage so far, and had escaped sea sickness, all the party except Mr. Bayard and himself were sick.”
With Payne healthy and away and Edward still recovering in Philadelphia, James was her sole concern. She’d do anything for him, anything to help him succeed.
As intriguing as a treasure chest to a pirate, so news of American politics left Cockburn wide eyed. He delighted at the latest jewel of gossip as he waited in Lynnhaven Bay for the return of Admiral Warren from Bermuda in June 1813.
“There was now only to be heard from one end of the country to the other lamentations of individuals who were now beginning to suffer from the effects of the war,” he relayed of a report from a disgruntled merchant, whom he had met while surveying the nearby Elizabeth River.
This gentleman from Richmond was hardly a supporter of his fellow Virginian James Madison, for he “also added with much apparent pleasure that Mr. Madison had lost all the latter measures he had proposed to Congress [previous to its breaking up] for prosecuting the war with rancor.”
The man was correct. The failures of the Twelfth Congress had become the top business of the Thirteenth Congress, which needed to raise revenue to fund a war sorely lacking in supplies and men. Would Madison resort to conscription, a draft to acquire more men? Doubtful. America relied on local militia. Besides, Madison was losing the inside game. The internal war with the Federalists could take him down before the British could get him.” As Cockburn wrote, “And he assured me from the present state of the country, the president would neither be enabled nor permitted to continue it [the war].”
While Cockburn delighted at such golden treasure, other intelligence didn’t bring him the same pleasure. Nearby, Americans had sunk three merchant ships with traditional weapons, which made it even more difficult to navigate his large British ships through the water for their next target.
Though rumors of his plan to attack Washington City had flown faster than his men could fire a rocket, Cockburn had decided that his next conquest instead would be Norfolk, Virginia. He had first eyed the magnificent USF Constellation not long after he arrived in Lynnhaven Bay in March.
Completed in Baltimore in 1797, this frigate was 164 feet long and 1,265 tons. The vessel featured thirty-eight 24-pounder long guns. After seeing action in the West Indies, the Mediterranean, Tunis, and Tripoli, the Constellation was docked at Craney Island off the Elizabeth River near Norfolk and Hampton, Virginia.
Cockburn took pleasure at his plan. What better way to further erode American public opinion and their confidence in President Madison’s war than to capture one of America’s finest and oldest warships? What better place to do
it than Norfolk, the home of Gosport, the USA’s oldest shipyard?
Founded in 1767 for the British crown on the Western shore of the Elizabeth River in Norfolk County, Gosport was transferred to the Commonwealth of Virginia at the beginning of the American Revolution. Two decades later, Congress leased the shipyard and ordered the construction of six frigates there. In 1801 the federal government purchased Gosport from Virginia.
The thirty-eight-gun USS Chesapeake was the first U.S. Navy ship built in Gosport. Ah, the Chesapeake! That’s where all the latest trouble with the British and U.S. governments began.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chesapeake Fever
On the morning of June 22, 1807, the USS Chesapeake sailed from Hampton Roads. While it attempted to get off shore, the HMS Leopard, a fifty-gun British ship, hailed it. A British lieutenant boarded and demanded to search the Chesapeake for four British deserters. The U.S. commander refused, saying the British had no right to search a U.S. military ship. They argued for forty minutes before the British lieutenant rowed back to the Leopard, which soon opened fire on the Chesapeake.
The unprepared American crew hastily fired one shot before their commander offered to surrender. Three Americans were killed and eighteen were wounded. Instead of accepting surrender, the British commander demanded that the remaining sailors muster. Claiming they were deserters, he seized four of the men. One was later executed and three were imprisoned.
The Chesapeake-Leopard Affair ignited outrage in the USA. President Jefferson responded by issuing an embargo that prevented U.S. trade with other nations. A form of economic warfare that lasted fifteen months, the embargo hurt the U.S. economy more than British trade.
The Burning of the White House Page 7