This event proved to be the high point of Midshipman Farragut’s early career in the navy, for he was chosen to be the prize master of the Barclay. This meant, in effect, that he was, at twelve years old, the commander of the ship and her crew. The latter was made up of men drawn from the crew of the Essex. Being selected to command the Barclay was “an important event in my life,” Farragut later wrote. “I felt no little pride at finding myself in command at twelve years of age.”
Also aboard the Barclay was her captain, Gideon Randall. Porter had decided that Randall would be responsible for the navigation of the ship while Farragut would control the crew and issue all necessary orders. The captain reluctantly agreed to this arrangement, having no other option except to lose all influence over the future of his vessel. Randall was clearly an unhappy man when the trip to Valparaiso began. He would have preferred to return to whaling, taking his chances with British ships and privateers on the open sea.
Once the Essex was out of sight, and the Essex Junior and the four prizes had pulled slightly ahead, Randall attempted to intimidate the thin young boy with the aquiline nose who had been put in charge of his ship. He made his move when Farragut issued the order to fill the topsail so as to catch up with the Essex Junior. Randall immediately bellowed that he would shoot any man who obeyed the order. The sailors hesitated, waiting to see who would win the confrontation. Farragut realized this was the first test of his command abilities, and “mustered up my courage,” as he later wrote. He repeated his order. To this, the crusty old captain repeated his warning, proclaiming he “had no idea of trusting himself to some damned nutshell.” To demonstrate his sincerity, Randall said he was going below to get his pistols.
With Randall momentarily off the deck, Farragut called one of his trusted crewmen to his side and repeated his order concerning the topsail. The man responded with a crisp and loud “Aye, aye, sir,” making it clear where his allegiance was placed, and enabling the boy to shore up his courage. Farragut then sent word below to Randall that if he appeared on deck armed he would be thrown overboard. Captain Randall judiciously accepted the threat as real and left his pistols where they were stored. Farragut had met the first test of his command head on and had won. The rest of the journey to Valparaiso was made peacefully.
While in Valparaiso, Downes learned that three British warships had sailed from the Atlantic into the Pacific with orders to attack and sink the Essex. These were the forty-gun frigate Phoebe and two sloops-of-war, the Cherub and the Raccoon, each carrying twenty-four guns. After hearing this, Downes left Valparaiso as quickly as possible and joined Porter on September 30, 1813, in the Galápagos Islands, where he delivered the bad news. Actually, the timing was just right. The best intelligence available to Porter told him that only one British whaler remained at large in the South Pacific. His toll on enemy commerce had been devastating, and it was time to leave the scene and return to the South Atlantic, where he would attempt to link up with Commodore Bainbridge’s squadron.
Leaving the remaining prize ships behind with small crews to protect them, the Essex and the Essex Junior sailed for the Chilean coast, arriving at Valparaiso on February 3, 1814. The Americans were greeted even more cordially than before, with the officers invited to a round of social events. Believing the British warships would not arrive for some time, Porter invited the local Chilean dignitaries to a ball aboard the Essex on the evening of February 7. The event was a huge success, but the following morning, as the decorations were being taken down, the Essex Junior, which had sailed from the harbor before daybreak, signaled the arrival of two vessels.
The Essex’s signal gun was quickly fired to bring aboard the crew members who had gone ashore, and the ship was prepared for action. A short time later the frigate Phoebe, accompanied by the sloop Cherub, sailed into the harbor. The second sloop, Raccoon, continued north for the Columbia River with orders to disrupt the American fur trade centered there.
As the Phoebe entered the harbor, she swung toward the two American vessels, which were anchored close together. The Essex Junior was astern of the Essex. In a daring display of seamanship, the huge frigate slipped between the two Americans, coming within ten or fifteen feet of the Essex. Aboard the American warship, every man was at his station. Boarders waited with their cutlasses and pistols at the ready, and cannons stood fully loaded, with powder boys alongside each, holding slow-burning matches.
Aboard the Phoebe, Captain James Hillyar watched as his ship closed on the enemy. He stood on the rear gun, in plain sight. Dressed in a regulation pea jacket and standing nonchalantly, Hillyar appeared a fine specimen of a sea captain confident in the handling of his vessel. With all eyes on him, the British officer called to the American ship, “Captain Hillyar’s compliments to Captain Porter, and hopes he is well.”
Porter watched with suspicion as the British ship closed in. Although it was true, they were in a neutral port, Hillyar’s reputation for violating neutral territory was widely known. Porter quickly responded, “Very well, I thank you; but I hope you will not come too near, for fear some accident might take place which would be disagreable to you.”
Hillyar replied that if his ship did make contact with the Essex, it would be purely accidental. “Well,” called Porter, “you have no business where you are. If you touch a rope-yarn of this ship, I shall board you instantly.” The threat was real, but the opportunity was lost as the Phoebe gradually pulled away. She had gotten so close that her jib boom had swung over the Essex’s forecastle, but miraculously it had touched nothing.
It was ironic that these two captains should come together to battle each other. Years earlier, in the Mediterranean, the two had been close friends, with Porter a frequent visitor at Hillyar’s home on Gibraltar. Now they were avowed enemies, anchored in a neutral port, waiting to sail into open waters and fight to the death.
The Phoebe and the Cherub dropped anchor not far from the American ships. The captains visited each other ashore, and Hillyar assured Porter he had no intention of violating Chilean neutrality. It took a few days for the replenishing of provisions for the British warships. That completed, they sailed from the harbor and cruised off the coast, waiting for their prey. Porter made several attempts to get Hillyar to agree on a single-ship action, but each met with failure. It soon became clear that Hillyar was biding his time, evidently waiting for additional Royal Navy ships before entering combat with the Essex and her smaller cohort.
Porter knew he stood little chance of battling both the Phoebe and the Cherub at the same time. His guns, more than sufficient at short range, were no match for the long-range guns of the British, and the position of the harbor eliminated the possibility of rushing past them into the open sea. He was stuck where he was, and the situation would only worsen if Hillyar received reinforcements.
Porter’s predicament remained static until March 28, when a furious wind swept down the mountains behind the city, and ripped the Essex from her anchorage. Whipped by the winds, the ship set sail for the sea, Porter hoping to pass the British ships while they were engaged in securing themselves from the gale. Unfortunately, nature was against him. The Essex was pounded by the wind, and almost went over on her side. Despite strenuous efforts by her crew, she began to come apart. First her main-topmast was carried away, along with several crewmen. This loss eliminated any hope Porter had of escaping, for without this vital section of mast, he could never outrun the Phoebe.
Turning back, the Essex attempted to regain the relative safety of the port, but the winds prevented her from doing so, and Porter was forced to anchor in a section of the east side of the harbor, still within the traditional three miles internationally recognized as the extension of neutrality. Hillyar decided not to recognize this boundary, not when his enemy was badly crippled and lay nearly defenseless. Had the Phoebe come closer, the Essex would not have been defenseless, but the majority of her guns were thirty-two-pound carronades, which had a devastating effect on a ship’s hull at short range, bu
t were virtually useless at long range. As the Phoebe stood out of range, the only guns the Essex could bring to bear on her were six long-range twelve-pounders. Against this, a broadside from the Phoebe could comprise thirteen long-range eighteen-pounders, one long-range twelve-pounder, and one long-range nine-pounder. Aside from being crippled in her ability to maneuver, the Essex was a sitting target for a ship that only had to remain out of range of her guns.
The Essex was in a desperate situation as the two enemy ships bore down on her. On board, everything was prepared for attack. Midshipman Farragut, as busy as every man aboard Essex preparing for the coming battle, later recalled, “I well remember the feelings of awe produced in me by the approach of the hostile ships; even to my young mind it was perceptible in the faces of those around me, as clearly as possible, that our case was hopeless.”
A few minutes before 4:00 p.m., the British ships commenced firing. This first clash ended a half hour later, when the Phoebe and Cherub withdrew to make repairs caused by the enthusiastic firing of the Essex’s three long-range guns, which had been moved to her stern and made more maneuverable.
The Essex was badly damaged in this first brief confrontation, with the loss of many men. Porter realized it was not possible to stand and fight the enemy; they simply remained out of range of his most destructive guns and pounded him mercilessly. His only hope of success was to get close enough to the Phoebe to board her. It was a dangerous move, to come under the very broadsides that had raked his ship from a distance, but there was little else he could do, short of surrendering.
Their repairs completed, the British ships returned for the kill. Hoping to get close enough to use his carronades and possibly board her, Porter used the only sail he had left, the flying jib, cut his anchor cable, and set his sights on the Phoebe. Just as he got her within range, Hillyar slipped his cable and literally backed off. This cat-and-mouse tactic, played out with a badly crippled cat and a powerful mouse, continued for several hours. As this struggle continued, the decks of the vastly outgunned Essex became awash with blood, and were left a splintered mess, made even worse each time cannon fire raked the ship. The majority of the crew were killed or wounded, with the survivors having to fight amid the mass of dismembered bodies and flesh that had earlier been their shipmates. Thousands of people crowded the coast to watch, many in dismay, as the badly crippled Essex tried repeatedly to close on her enemy, only to have that enemy pull back each time.
Porter soon recognized that the fight was hopeless. The frigate would continue to move out of range, and continue to dismantle the Essex with her cannon fire until not a man was left alive. The last straw for him was the sight of flames shooting up from the hatchway and reaching toward what was left of the magazine. While he himself was determined to fight to the death, he did not want to take with him the lives of the many wounded men who would surely drown when the Essex went down. With great exertion, he turned the sinking ship toward shore in an effort to get as close as possible, thereby enabling those few men left unwounded to help the wounded ones reach the safety of the beach. The struggle came to nothing, for suddenly a heavy gust of wind again blew down from the mountains and pushed what remained of the Essex around and back toward the open sea.
From the shore, thousands of pairs of eyes watched in awe and horror as the burning and virtually out-of-control ship was pitched and twisted, almost completely at the mercy of the sea and wind. Using what little control he had, Porter attempted to bring what was left of her guns to bear on the enemy. The British kept backing away from the Essex, holding a position that remained out of range of her carronades, and firing broadside after broadside at her. Each time the American swung around, the sailors manning her long-range guns fired on the Phoebe and the Cherub, to the amazement of the crews of those ships. And still, enemy cannon fire continued to rake her, flames raged everywhere, and splintered wood from her decks and rails flew through the air, wounding as many on board the Essex as did the British cannons.
For young midshipman Farragut, this was a moment of thrilling terror. During the battle, which lasted two and a half hours, he acted as captain’s aide, carrying messages throughout the ship for Porter. He served as a gunner when that position was opened by death or wounds, and even as powder boy when needed. At least twice, amid the slaughter and destruction around him, Farragut was nearly killed himself. Once, when he was descending the wardroom ladder in pursuit of badly needed gun primers, a gunner nearby was struck in the face by a British eighteen-pound shot and his body flung against the boy’s. Both crashed down the ladder, the larger man lying atop the younger. Farragut’s head struck something, and he was momentarily knocked unconscious. When he came to, he realized that had the gunner’s body landed more directly on him, he would have probably been crushed. He struggled out from under the headless corpse and proceeded with his mission.
A short while later, Farragut was standing alongside Quartermaster Francis Bland, who was at the ship’s wheel. Farragut suddenly saw an enemy shot coming straight for them. He yelled for Bland to jump out of the way, then leaped against the older man in an effort to shove him away from the danger. Unfortunately, the young midshipman was a fraction of a second too late, for the shot ripped Bland’s right leg from his body and tore through Farragut’s coat. He helped the gravely bleeding Bland below, but the surgeons were so badly overworked, trying to cope with the many wounded men, that he bled to death before they could get to him.
At around 6:00 p.m., Porter sent word for the commissioned officers to meet with him on deck to discuss, among other things, how best to continue the fight. The Essex was slowly being consumed by flames, and smoke choked the men who manned the few remaining guns, making it almost impossible for them to see the enemy. Bodies of their comrades floated in the waters around the ship, some burned beyond recognition. It was clear to everyone on board, as well as to those watching from the enemy ships and from the shore, that the gallant ship was doomed. Captain Porter was prepared to take a vote among his remaining officers on the issue of surrender, but even that was not to be accomplished, since there was only one officer besides himself who was still capable of functioning. All the others had been severely wounded or killed. With this officer, Lieutenant Stephen Decatur McKnight, Captain Porter decided that only by surrendering could he prevent the Essex from sinking and taking the wounded men with her. Her hull had been shot through with so many holes that water was literally pouring into her.
Before hauling down his colors, and thus announcing his surrender to the enemy, Captain Porter told all those physically capable of doing so to jump overboard and swim to the beach. At that moment, the Essex was about three-quarters of a mile from the shore. As enemy shot poured in around him, Porter yelled over the din to Midshipman Farragut to find the ship’s signal book and drop it over the side before the enemy came aboard. Locating the valuable book, Farragut did as ordered, watching it slip away beneath the waves, out of reach of the British. Then, with adrenaline still pumping through his body and recognizing that the fight was lost, Farragut joined another boy midshipman in throwing overboard all the small arms they could find. They would at least keep this booty from the hands of British sailors.
At twenty minutes past six, approximately two hours and twenty minutes after the fearful fight had begun, Captain David Porter ordered the colors struck. Whether it was the blinding smoke or the rush caused by the battle isn’t known, but even after the colors had come down, the British warships kept up their deadly firing for another ten minutes, killing four more men aboard the Essex. Porter surrendered his sword to the British naval officer who boarded the Essex for that specific purpose.
The following morning a tearful, not yet thirteen-year-old Midshipman Farragut was taken as a prisoner aboard His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Phoebe. As he was being escorted to the steerage where the prisoners were to be held, Farragut saw a British midshipman about his own age holding a pig and shouting, “A prize, a prize.” The pig, named Murphy, was a
pet of the Essex’s crew. Refusing to abdicate to the humiliation he was beginning to feel as a prisoner, Farragut approached the lad and demanded that he hand over the pig. The British midshipman refused, claiming the pig was his prisoner. A struggle ensued as both boys tried to seize the squealing pig. British sailors, drawn by the struggle, soon formed a circle around the two boys and agreed that they should fight each other, and the winner be awarded custody of the pig. Farragut was the undisputed victor of this episode of pugilistics and walked away with Murphy under his arm, and some of his personal dignity restored.
A short time later, he was invited to join Captain Hillyar and his prisoner, Captain Porter, for breakfast in Hillyar’s cabin. Hillyar saw the discomfort the boy felt in the presence of the man who had destroyed his ship and defeated his captain, and tried to console him by telling him in a kindly way, “Never mind, my little fellow, it will be your turn next perhaps,” meaning that the next time Hillyar and Farragut met, the British captain might be his prisoner.
On the verge of tears, and fighting back the emotions that swept over him, the boy responded that he hoped so, and quickly left the cabin.
What remained of the crew of the Essex and the Essex Junior, 132 men and officers out of 255, were paroled and returned to the United States aboard the Essex Junior, after her guns had been removed. According to official British reports, the lopsided battle had also resulted in a disproportionate number of casualties. On board the Phoebe, which had received eighteen twelve-pound shots below her waterline, four men were killed and seven wounded. The Cherub reported one killed, and three wounded. In all, some 700 eighteen-pound shots had been fired at the Essex. The American ship, crippled even before the battle had begun, had fired her twelve long-range guns seventy-five times. Both British warships were badly damaged in the encounter and required extensive repairs before they returned to service. The Essex, or what remained of her, sank just outside the Valparaiso harbor.
Lincoln's Admiral Page 2