The Burning of the White House

by Jane Hampton Cook

  Sometime that day, either before, after, or during the writing of this proclamation, the knock at the door came. Madison welcomed Mr. Key. He was well acquainted with him. Seven years earlier, he had received a letter from Key and another attorney requesting his help. They had been defense attorneys for a prisoner held in Washington’s marine barracks. The marine commandant and the navy secretary had prohibited them from meeting with their client. They needed Madison, who was then secretary of state, to intervene. “We are constrained to trouble you on a subject which we have in vain endeavored to effect without your intervention,” Key had written back then in a letter to Madison. He could have used the same words to describe Beanes’s plight.

  Key tapped Madison’s sense of justice. Both shared a passion for advocacy and the rule of law. Presenting a plan, Key proposed that he visit the British fleet under a flag of truce. Then he would try to secure Beanes’s release. The case was tricky to be certain, but it was something he had to do.

  Swift and sure was Madison’s response. He agreed with Key and asked General Mason to intervene. Mason immediately wrote a letter on behalf of Beanes. He also gathered letters from wounded British soldiers, including a key officer, who were still recovering in Washington. These men wrote letters to General Ross proclaiming the good treatment that the Americans had given them. Mason then authorized Key to travel to Baltimore to join John Skinner, who was the U.S. prisoner-of-war exchange agent. Procuring a ship, together they would find the British fleet and do their best to secure Beanes’s release.

  It was in this way that Madison played a quiet, behind-the-scenes role in the circumstances that led to crafting the national anthem.

  “The disgraceful loss of the capital and the agitation it has excited brought me to town; where the effect upon the populace is such as might be expected,” Senator King wrote his friend, Senator Gore, on August 30, 1814.

  As soon as he heard about the fall of the nation’s capital, Senator King feared for his hometown, New York City. Hurrying from his Long Island home into the city, King called upon the governor, the defense committee, and the military general assigned to protect New York—a post previously held by General Armstrong. All were alarmed, but they were also undecided on what to do.

  “My object was to induce the government to call forth and bring to NY 20,000 militia, and as the U.S. have no funds, and have deserted our, as well as their own, protection, to stimulate the city corporation to pledge themselves to provide the means of subsistence for these troops,” King explained, believing that local resources should now be used to prevent an attack on New York.

  This was a huge switch for King. Earlier he’d expressed the idea that the federal government, not local militias, should be called upon to protect local communities. The reality now was different. The credit of the U.S. government was so weak and unstable that New York banks would not loan bills without better security.

  King concluded that if New York’s governor, Daniel Tompkins, signed Treasury notes, each bank would provide $500 for building defenses to protect New York’s port from attack.

  When the senator broached the subject with Tompkins and asked him to sign the Treasury notes, he found the governor resistant. King responded with such patriotic pro-defense fervor that he might as well have been James Madison, not a war-opposing senator.

  King proclaimed that “the time had arrived when it was the duty of every man to put his all at the requisition of the government, and that he himself was ready to do this.”

  Tompkins replied tersely that “he should be obliged to act on his own responsibility, and should be ruined.”

  “Then,” King replied, “ruin yourself if it becomes necessary to save the country, and I pledge you my honor that I will support you in whatever you do.”

  Governor Tompkins signed the notes, and New York residents organized into voluntary military corps.

  King also spoke to a group of New York bankers. Because the war had drained banks of hard money, these bankers had stopped issuing payment in specie, or money in the form of coins. King knew, however, that they needed to take a risk in the form of credit.

  “We are in a critical situation, and it is therefore our duty to get out of it the best way we can,” King told them. “The enemy is at our doors and it is now useless to enquire how he came there: he must be driven away and every man join hand and heart, and place shoulder to shoulder to meet him.”

  The bankers were so moved by his speech that they gave him a rousing applause and shouted cheers of agreement. Understanding the nation’s financial needs, they decided to limit their debt to a total sum and issue notes or credit as if it were exchangeable for hard coins.

  Something was changing in Rufus King. No matter his past opposition to the war and Madison, his home city was now in danger. During this time of peril, he believed that it was the duty of all citizens to defend each other and their country. Though his opinion of President Madison hadn’t changed, he was taking action like never before to work together for the common good. He, too, was rising like a phoenix.

  Washington Irving had not forgotten his fond memories of Dolley Madison from his visit to the White House in January 1811. Writing biographies of naval heroes like James Lawrence and Oliver Perry had changed him. Hence, something stirred within him when he heard about the destruction of that fine white house in Washington. Something deep. Something patriotic. Something passionate that led him to do something no one expected this satirist turned journalist to do.

  Irving learned the news of the burning of the U.S. Capitol and White House while aboard a steamboat in Albany, New York. A fellow passenger sneered, wondering what “Jimmie Madison” would say now.

  This passenger’s contempt sounded very much like Admiral Cockburn’s “Jemmy.”

  Irving gave a quick retort. “Sir, do you seize on such a disaster only for a sneer?”

  Steam suddenly sprung from Irving’s lips.

  “Let me tell you. Sir, it is not now a question about Jimmie Madison or Johnny Armstrong. The pride and honor of the nation are wounded.”

  He may have started as a writer of comedic fiction, but he was very grounded in reality. “The country is insulted and disgraced by this barbarous success, and every loyal citizen would feel the ignominy and be earnest to avenge it.”

  Indeed. Irving’s local paper, which had opposed Madison on many occasions, now echoed the need for unity. “Believe us fellow citizens. This is no moment for crimination and recrimination, which necessarily follows. . . . Let one voice and one spirit animate us all—the voice of our bleeding country and the spirit of our immortal ancestors.”

  With a firm grasp of what to do, Irving joined the militia led by the New York governor Daniel Tompkins. He became Colonel Washington Irving, an aide-de-camp to Tompkins, who sent him to Sackett’s Harbor in October 1814. Arriving on horseback, Irving issued Tompkins’s orders to send militia reinforcement to Commodore Isaac Chauncey’s fleet to fight the British.

  Chauncey was surprised to meet Irving, alias Dietrich Knickerbocker, the satirist turned soldier. “‘You here?’ Chauncey exclaimed, in extending his hand; ‘I should as soon have thought of seeing my wife.’”

  Irving stayed with Chauncey for two days. “During which time he took me round the little fleet, and I had a fine opportunity of witnessing their admirable order and equipment. It is a gallant little squadron,” Irving wrote.

  During this time he most likely met a man whose name he would never forget. Ichabod Crane, who had earlier served as a marine for Stephen Decatur aboard the USS United States, served in Sackett’s Harbor.

  Meeting Crane and hearing stories of other patriots inspired Irving to add summaries of the naval war, including ones about hero Stephen Decatur, to his Analectic Magazine. After the war, Irving returned to satire and short stories. Within five years, he published his most famous work, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, which featured short stories such as Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hallow, whose ma
in character was named Ichabod Crane.

  Immediately after burning Washington and returning to his ship, Cockburn got what he wanted out of Cochrane: praise to the admiralty. On September 2, 1814, Cochrane wrote a letter to his superior about Cockburn’s bravery.

  “I have before had occasion to speak of the unremitting zeal and exertions of Rear Admiral Cockburn during the time he commanded in the Chesapeake under my orders—the interest and ability which he has manifested throughout this late arduous service justly entitle him to my best thanks, and to the acknowledgements of my Lords Commissioners of the admiralty.”

  The glory was unabashed. The man who burned Washington couldn’t have been a better servant to the king.

  “To Rear Admiral Cockburn, who suggested the attack on Washington, and accompanied the army, I confess the greatest obligation for his cordial co-operation and advice,” Ross wrote in his official report, giving credit to the admiral for their success in Washington.

  Whatever Cochrane’s earlier reluctance to invade Washington, he showed a united front to his superiors. Glory and promotions should be their reward.

  With Washington in ruins, the issue of where Congress should convene had crossed Senator King’s mind several times. Wouldn’t Congress be better off meeting in another city, at least temporarily? What about permanently? Yes, if they were lucky.

  “Whether Madison will issue a new proclamation founded upon the destruction of the public buildings at Washington (which was contrary to the usage of modern war) and recommending to Congress to meet at Lancaster [Pennsylvania] or elsewhere, we can only conjecture,” he wrote to Senator Gore.

  He also complained about the failure of Bladensburg. “So far as regards the common defense, the general government has deserted its duties. Without money, without soldiers and without courage, the president and his cabinet are the objects of very general execration,” he observed.

  Though he knew that Madison’s unpopularity was justification for relocating the capital, he doubted the president would do it.

  “I shall not be surprised if he [Madison] suffers the members to assemble at Washington and adjourn to some other place; this will save him from deciding; if he had any character he would convene Congress at Philadelphia, but this he will be afraid to do,” he added.

  Before the burning of the Capitol, King had planned to arrive in Washington in early October, not by September 19, when Congress planned to resume business. Now he was so worried about his country that he didn’t want to be late.

  He shared his sentiments with Congressman Mason in a letter on September 2. “Where Congress will meet next no one knows, some believe that the president will recommend Lancaster, more that he will do nothing.”

  Though he loved New York, King was practical. “Philadelphia should be the place, but lest its accommodation should prove too agreeable, and so operate against the rebuilding of Washington, it is likely that a majority will be found in favor of some inconvenient temporary residence.”

  He decided that he would wait as long as he could before departing for Washington in case news arrived from the president announcing that Congress would reconvene somewhere else. “In the present alarm I feel unwilling to be absent when the session opens, and if I could contribute anything to bringing Congress to Philadelphia I should be anxious to do it.”

  King was most worried about the peace negotiations. “We have no tidings from the envoys, nor have I better means, than when we separated, to predict the issue of their mission.”

  Indeed. Newspapers had also recently updated Americans on the status of the peace talks at Ghent. The most up-to-date information was from July 20. Though most of the American peace negotiators were already in Ghent, the British delegation had yet to arrive. The news was “nothing favorable to peace.”

  “Your letter of this date reached me at 6 PM—Would to God it was in my power to return to Baltimore immediately as I am well assured that our seamen would be of more service there than they are likely to be here,” Rodgers wrote from Washington to General Samuel Smith on September 1.

  Following Navy Secretary Jones’s orders, Rodgers had sent a detachment of his men to the Potomac River to chase British Captain Arthur Gordon’s squadron away from Alexandria. As he had promised, Rodgers had joined his men.

  While he made preparations at Washington’s charred Naval Yard, Rodgers listened to Secretary Jones, who was conflicted about calling him to Washington and Alexandria when the threat against Baltimore was so strong. Jones was convinced that the British had been reinforced with additional troops. The thought worried him so much that he gave Rodgers permission to return to Baltimore if an emergency arose.

  Calculating that he could arrive in Baltimore within twelve hours, Rodgers had procured a stagecoach to transport his sailors by land if the British made an advance there. He needed to inform Smith in Baltimore.

  “I can assure you that I feel deep interest in the welfare of Baltimore and am satisfied that I shall be with you with 7/8ths of my force should the enemy attack you; and this is an object on which I have set my heart.”

  Rodgers was determined that Admiral Cockburn and General Ross would curse the day they undertook their expedition against America.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  White House Phoenix

  Baltimore was the nation’s third-largest city in 1814, boasting a population of more than 46,000 in 1810. Its pride and joy was its harbor, where sailmakers, shipwrights, and merchants earned their living on the oasis of blue ocean.

  An international seaport resting forty miles from Washington, Baltimore had bred its fair share of honorable men and rascals. The British military hated Baltimore because privateers who operated out of the harbor had attacked them. The U.S. government had given these ship owners permission to use their private vessels to capture British ships. Indeed. These privateers had captured more than 500 British ships.

  Burning and looting Baltimore would be a valuable, pocket-enriching venture, as Cockburn well knew. The city was a treasure chest waiting to be opened. Marylanders everywhere knew it, too, including John Rodgers and Francis Scott Key.

  Fearing that General Winder would try to lead Baltimore’s defense, a group of Maryland military officers approached the city’s committee of vigilance and safety. They wholeheartedly threw their support behind Smith. It didn’t matter that President Madison had appointed Winder to lead the 10th military district, which included Baltimore. Nor did it matter that Winder was the nephew of Maryland’s new governor. This wasn’t going to be a conflict between federal and state authority. What mattered most right now was success.

  Winder had failed at Bladensburg. By selecting Smith, the town leaders believed that they had a better shot at successfully fending off the enemy. Though protesting to Monroe, who had become secretary of war after Armstrong’s resignation, Winder gave in. Agreeing to command a regiment from Virginia, he took a demoted position and became a team player. Like Van Ness before Bladensburg, he put aside his pride and served in whatever capacity he could.

  Smith took charge of Baltimore’s defense like no one else could. He, along with Fort McHenry Commander Major George Armistead, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry, and Lieutenant Robert Spence, would do his part. Smith would command the forces and tap the likes of John Rodgers and many others to bring brawn and might to the effort. Local newspaper editors agreed.

  “The spirit of the nation is roused,” the Niles Register of Baltimore reported. “War is a new business to us, but we must ‘teach our fingers to fight’—and Wellington’s invincibles shall be beaten by the sons of those who fought at Saratoga and Yorktown.”

  They would become American phoenixes in Baltimore.

  Cockburn seethed at the news. On September 4, Cochrane sent him new orders for a new destination. Was it Baltimore? No. Philadelphia? No. New York? Not even close. Instead, Cochrane had ordered Cockburn to take his flagship, the Albion, and lead a convoy of vessels loaded with prizes from Washington to Bermuda. Th
en he was to rejoin Cochrane at a more northern location along America’s east coast.

  Although Cochrane had praised Cockburn on paper to the admiralty, he had also cut him out and cut him short. He seemed to be seething that Cockburn had turned a blind eye to his final order not to invade Washington. Cockburn was fortunate that the mission had succeeded. Because he had disobeyed orders, if he had failed in Washington, his career would have been in jeopardy.

  Tangible proof of Cochrane’s displeasure came through a Royal Navy custom. Instead of allowing Cockburn to choose an officer, promote him, and allow him the honor of taking the victorious news to London, Cochrane deferred to Ross to choose the messenger instead. The person who felt the sting the most was Scott. Cockburn would have chosen him, no doubt. Scott longed to return home and receive a promotion. Instead he was denied the glory because of his boss’s defiance.

  Cochrane also prevented Cockburn from conferring easily with Ross about their next move. He did this by having Ross quartered as a special guest on his own flagship, the Tonnant, instead of Cockburn’s ship, the Albion. In this way, Cockburn lost the ability to quietly convince Ross of the merits of a quick and immediate attack on nearby Baltimore, the most obvious choice for their next target. Failing to hit it quickly could have dire consequences by giving the Americans time to regroup, should they be so inclined.

  Though he intently disagreed, Cockburn was aware of Cochrane’s reasons for retiring instead of attacking Baltimore. He knew that Cochrane despised the hot climate of America’s southern states. He was right. Just the day before, on September 3, Cochrane had written the First Lord of the admiralty.

  “As soon as the army is all re-embarked I mean to proceed to the Northward and if possible try to surprise Rhode Island, where we will quarter upon the enemy and the troops as well as the ships meet with every refreshment.” September was a sickly month for the locals in Virginia, much less Cochrane’s army, which lacked immunity from regional diseases, so he thought. Rhode Island offered the cooler temperatures that Cochrane craved. He figured that he could return to Baltimore with reinforcements in October, when the weather was less warm.