Major Armistead immediately returned the British fire and several of the guns of McHenry found their targets; the rigging of the Cockchafer was damaged during the encounter and a cheer went up from Jared’s men in Covington as they watched the frigate win her anchor, springs and all, and lead the fleet to a position just out of range of the Fort’s guns. Regardless of the range, both sides continued their non-stop bombardment for nearly three hours.
“They’s just wasting shot and powder, Jared. Them shots ain’t touching them Royal Navy bastards. Landing short, every damn one. You reckon Armistead knows they’s short?” Andrews, a veteran of several sea battles, questioned Talbot as they watched, frustrated by their battery’s inability to bear on the British.
“I’d bet he’s just lettin’ them boys let off a little of they’s frustration, Bill. He can see the shot-fall good’s you and I can. Them mortar rounds the British is firin’ is likely shakin’ them boys up pretty good. The rockets ain’t doin’ much, but I sure ain’t lookin’ forward to havin’ them big mortars landin’ in here.”
Both men could see the large iron balls, hollowed out and filled with explosives controlled by a fuse, flying and bursting all around the walls of Fort McHenry. Their concussion was awesome, felt by Talbot’s men in Covington and as surely by those at Babcock; it must be a living hell, both men thought as they watched.
As if the major in command of the Fort had heard the conversation, American firing suddenly stopped. There was little point in wasting their limited shot and powder as none of the ships whose guns and mortars and rockets rained horror on the Fort were within range of American guns. The British guns continued without pause, maintaining their fusillade with relentless fury. The shells and iron balls fell at the rate of one every minute.
Sometime after what would have been dinner time had not the Fort been under siege, Jared and Bill Andrews watched as a British mortar round hit one of the twenty-four-pounders in the southwest corner of the Fort.
“Gawd awmighty! Did you see that. That musta been a direct hit. Them poor coves couldn’ta survived that.” Andrews was standing on the barrel of a long eighteen-pounder watching the shelling over the parapet of the smaller fort. Jared watched impassively, his head clearing well the top of the wall as he stood next to the gun. The British shot had continued unabated and, for the most part, unrequited.
“Aye. Reckon you’re right, Bill. They’re gonna have to remount that gun if’n she’s not busted up too bad.” Suddenly he pounded his fist down on the top of the wall and turned inward. “You men! Stand by to fire. I know the range is long, but give it your best. Every barrel what’ll bear…FIRE!”
With a deafening roar, the eight eighteen-pounders that had even the slightest chance of hitting a target belched forth a tongue of flame and smoke. The easy breeze barely had sufficient strength to clear the choking, lavender tinted smoke that hung in front of the guns, so none of the flotillamen could see if their shots had told. Since they were actually farther from the bombardment fleet than even the guns of McHenry, it was unlikely, but as Jared told himself – and Bill Andrews, “It’s good for the lads to join in this scrap. But I sure do wish them bastards would come in a little closer – just enough to let us hit ‘em!”
“Looks to me like the Royal Navy got almost the same problem, Jared; most of them balls the Brits’re firing in here ain’t got range enough to do a helluva lot of damage. See how they’s just bouncing off’n the outer walls? Them shots is about spent. The mortars is all that’s makin’ they’s lives miserable over there. And looks to me as if more’n a few of ‘em’s landing short or blowin’ up in the air afore they even get here.”
Within the hour, Andrews commented, “Looks like you’re gonna get your wish, Jared. Them ships is underweigh. Looks to me like they’s movin’ in. Whoever’s in charge out there must think he’s got Armistead’s lads on the run.”
“Stand by, men. They’s comin’ into range. Sight your pieces careful and blow your matches.” Talbot was standing on some upturned crates between two cannon and watched with complete concentration as the British ships moved carefully into the killing range of both forts. He trained a longglass the activity at McHenry, pleased to see that the big flag still flew from the mast in the fort’s enclosure and that the recently dismounted twenty-four-pounder was again ready for service. His command to fire was nearly drowned out by the deafening roar of the fort’s huge guns.
The crews of both forts and the Babcock battery, frustrated by nearly six hours of forced inactivity, unleashed a barrage of iron shot as the British ships came within range.
Yelling over the deafening din, his long braid flying left and right as he turned from the battle to his guns, Talbot exhorted his men with reports of how their shots told.
“Keep firin’, lads. You’re hittin’ ‘em. Lookee there; that frigate’s took one right a’twixt her wind an’ water…there – that bomb ship’s took a round! Watch there! They’s another frigate comin’ close. Fire, lads, fire!”
McHenry’s guns continued their firing unabated as well and, as those who could watched, boats were lowered from a newly arrived second frigate to take in tow the rocket launcher, Erebus. Cockchafer, her tophamper still damaged, withdrew, followed quickly by the remaining vessels and, in less that an hour, the incident was over. The American guns again fell silent. But not the American soldiers and sailors; cheers broke out from all around the harbor front as the men saw the British pull back. Adding to the general feeling of well-being, a military band in Fort McHenry broke out in “Yankee Doodle.”
But the British bombardment continued, mortars and rockets wooshing through the sky and exploding ineffectively as nearly spent iron shot splashed into the harbor or thumped dully against the outer ramparts of the star-shaped Fort. A supper of dry biscuit and some hastily thrown together lobscouse made up for the lack of dinner and the men in both forts settled down to wait for whatever came next, as the rain, absent almost all day, returned with a fury to make their night truly miserable.
“Jared…Jared! Wake up. We got something right out yonder!” It was nearly half way through the middle watch as Bill Andrews shook his commodore out of an exhausted sleep. The urgency in his voice, combined with the rough shaking, brought a reluctant Talbot struggling up through the depths of unconsciousness.
“Wha…wha’s happening? We bein’ boarded? Wha…who…oh! It’s you Bill. What’s actin’?” Talbot was fully awake and stood as tall as the limited overhead in the magazine would allow. He scratched at his beard.
“Looks like some boats headin’ in. ’Pears they’s makin’ for Ridgely’s Cove. Or tryin’ to get in behind McHenry. Best you come have a looksee for your own self. And the Brits’ve quit firin’, too.” Andrews, already hurrying back out to the Fort’s wall, threw the words back over his shoulder. In his haste to follow, Jared neglected to duck and his head made a dull thud as he walked squarely into the lintel of the low doorway.
Andrews heard the distinctive sound and turning back, offered, “Mind your head, Jared!” He was still smiling when he reached the ramparts.
Talbot, on the other hand, appeared at the wall still rubbing his head and cursing. Bill ignored the exclamations and pointed, all amusement gone.
“See there? Less’n I’m goin’ blind, they’s more’n a dozen row barges and maybe one of them rocket ships headin this way. There! Looks like a gig or something small leadin’ ‘em. Must be takin’ soundings. You can hear the oars splashin.”
“Aye, I see ‘em. Turn out all hands.”
As he watched, Talbot, and soon the others in Fort Covington, could see winking lights below them dimly glinting through the rain. “Hmmm. Lit slow matches, be my guess. Gives us something to aim at – and thankee kindly, Mister Royal Navy sailor!” Talbot smiled ruefully to himself as the Fort came quickly and quietly to life and the guns were once again manned.
“Use them lights down there for your targets. Give ‘em your best, lads! Make every shot tell! FIRE AS Y
OU BEAR!”
With hardly a moment’s hesitation and, since all of the fort’s guns could bear, the entire battery opened fire on the twinkling lights below them. In the ensuing silence and, as quickly as his hearing returned, Jared realized that the splash of oars had stopped. The lights he had seen stopped twinkling and grew brighter. “Reckon they’re slow matches, all right.” He turned to his sailors. “Keep your heads down, lads, they’re gon…”
His words were drowned out by the British fire as gun barges and a schooner opened fire on both Covington and Babcock. In a brief lull in the firing, Jared yelled to his men, “Fire at the flashes, lads! At this range you cain’t miss!”
And indeed, their shots told; in the silence between shots, shrieking and yelling from below the Fort told of their accuracy. A few balls – likely from the schooner – thudded harmlessly into the walls around Covington and Babcock, now a full participant in the carnage. Several shots and more than a few rockets flew overhead, landing in the new works behind Covington where an additional battery was being built.
“By George, they’ll blow us out of the water! Backwater; retreat!” The British voice drifted up from below them and the American sailors, still frustrated over their earlier inability to fire effectively, were inspired to greater rates of fire and accuracy.
A single rocket split the wet darkness as it flew straight up from the British squadron. “That’s a signal, I’d warrant. Reckon they’s headin’ back to the deeper water.” Bill Andrews laughed to Jared and pointed. Through the glow of the continued barrage, the men could see the British barges, rocket ships, and the single schooner as they worked their way back to the fleet, passing Fort McHenry to larboard.
The light gave the gunners manning the lower water battery at the Fort a welcome target. As the bombardment fleet fired its mortars and rockets to cover the failed mission’s retreat, the eerie wet glow created as the missiles sailed through the rain lit the barges adequately for the gunners at the Fort to pick out targets. It only lasted for a moment as, soon, the row barges, gig, and schooner were beyond their range and out of harm’s way.
Talbot and Andrews stood at Covington’s wall, soaked through and through but smiling at their first real trial successfully met.
“You lads done right good, by the Almighty! We turned them bastards around. Tryin’ to land ‘long the shore here, I’d reckon, and get into the city behind the Fort. Them Brits’re findin’ out that we ain’t gonna lay down and die for ‘em like them ones down to Washington done! Well done, lads!”
A round of huzzahs broke out and was echoed by the sailors and soldiers at Battery Babcock only five hundred yards down the shore. The rain, coming hard and steadily now, was ignored as the men of Joshua Barney’s gunboat flotilla celebrated and cavorted around the Fort.
The British ships, rocket launchers and mortars, continued their bombardment of Fort McHenry sporadically through the remainder of the night; each time they fell silent, the Americans prayed it was over and they would have to endure the exploding missiles and rockets no longer. But the shells would always start again and the soldiers and flotillamen manning the forts would hunch down and, like a beleaguered ship in a storm at sea, ride out yet another onslaught.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“How long to you figger this is gonna go on, Colonel? Any of them coves you was taking your dinner with mention that?” Jack Clements shifted his rump on the sea chest that served as his chair in the sloop’s tiny cabin.
He, Skinner, and Frank Key had all crowded into the captain’s cabin when they returned to the sloop along with Isaac and Jake. Carronade lounged at the foot of the ladder just outside the door and snored contentedly; the distant firing bothered him not at all. Wet tarpaulin coats, Key’s cloak, and Colonel Skinner’s sodden blue jacket hung, dripping in a corner. A single candle shared the table with a small cask of beer and a half empty bottle of wine; a pair of smoky lanterns hung from the overhead beams and cast a yellow glow which moved about the small room as the sloop rocked gently in the light chop running in from the Bay.
“The admiral mentioned something about continuing until the Royal Marines had successfully taken the city from the land. He fully expected that our militia and army would collapse under the onslaught, allowing the British quick access to Baltimore from the east. I would imagine he is somewhat surprised that it is not a fait acompli already.” Skinner smiled at the sailors and reached into his waistcoat pocket for his watch. “Already past midnight, it is, and still they continue the bombardment; must be that Major Armistead and his lads are withstanding what can only be cruel punishment better than Admiral Cochrane expected.”
No sooner had he spoken than the firing stopped. At first, none of the men realized what was missing, so accustomed to the firing had they become. The silence was all encompassing and the creaking of the little ship as she worked at her tether, her spars, rigging, and hull making the noises sailors grow to love and expect, suddenly seemed loud.
“Oh my God! It’s over. The firing’s stopped; it can only mean disaster!” Key leaped to his feet and, grabbing his wet cloak from the peg in the bulkhead, tripped over Carronade in his haste to get to ladder. The dog, rudely awakened, sat up and in so doing, fouled Key’s legs even more. The two of them went down in a heap.
Clements, closest to the door, stood and offered the lawyer a helping hand while he spoke quietly to the dog, still startled and looking for something to bite.
“I must get upstairs to see what’s happening. Here…get that animal off me…damned cur stood up just as I was…ooof…there’s a good dog…thank you for the hand, sir. I will…keep the animal here, if you please.” And Key was back on an even keel and headed up the ladder. Carronade, calmed by his master, lay down again and was soon snoring quietly.
Isaac and Jake shrugged into their still wet coats and followed the lawyer topside. They found him gripping the low bulwark and leaning toward the shore, oblivious to the pelting rain. After listening to the bombardment for so long, it was indeed eerie to have it silent. There was little activity on Tonnant and, from what they could see, the other nearby ships had few men on deck.
“Oh my God. What has happened? Why have they stopped firing? Can the city – and Fort McHenry have fallen? Impregnable, we thought. Here, Captain Biggs: can you see anything out there through this cursed downpour? I can barely make out the ships inshore of us, let alone the Fort. I can not believe that they would have stopped their damnable shelling for any reason other than their success.”
“No sir, I cain’t see much more than you. Maybe they’s just restin’ a bit. Firing the way they have been takes some toll on the men. Cain’t keep it up like that forever. The men must be needin’ a rest – some sleep.”
“Let us hope you are right. Perhaps they will begin again when the men are rested.”
Biggs and Tate exchanged looks; why ever would an American want the shelling to continue? Surely he has to know that the men on the shore – on the receiving end of the bombardment – must have had enough by now! Jake mentioned it.
“Uh…Mister Key? Why’re you so anxious for ‘em to start firin’ again. Reckon them lads in the Fort likely feel some different about it. They’re prob’ly right pleased that it’s quit.”
“Think, boy! If the firing has ceased, it can only mean the Fort – and the city – has surrendered. Why else would they stop the bombardment? Unless, of course, your captain is correct and the men are resting. As long as the firing continues, it means that the Fort – and Baltimore – stand.” Key shook his head in the dark; it was incomprehensible that anyone could be so stupid.
For some time the three men stood silently watching for the trail of a rocket or the explosion of a mortar shell. One of the Royal Marines, quite soaked from being relegated to the sloop’s foredeck, approached the Americans. The claying from his white pants had run onto his boots, streaking them gray and his sodden red jacket appeared almost black.
“I’d quite imagine my lads and I will
shortly be returning to Tonnant, now that the battle appears concluded. A pity you colonials can’t defend yourselves. Of course, most of ‘is Majesty’s troops who have taken your city are veterans of our recent victory over Napoleon. Fought under the Iron Duke, you know – the Duke of Wellington? In point of fact, it was ‘e what recommended General Ross to ‘is command ‘ere. Quite a fine leader, ‘e is. Certainly would appear ‘e ‘as ‘ad little difficulty in bringin’ you Jonathans to ‘eel!”
Even had the Americans been unable to see the sneer the Royal Marine sported, they surely could hear it in his voice, so supercilious and overbearing was it. The tone and his words did little to ease their concerns. It was as the British regular finished speaking that Carronade chose to come on deck to see what might be happening. Out of the corner of his eye, the Royal Marine caught movement, low and dark, emerging from the scuttle; at the same time, the dog saw the red coat and white pants over black boots in front of him and immediately began to growl.
Carronade stopped in his tracks just out of the hatch and stood, teeth bared, growling a low menacing tone that caused the Englishman to take a step backwards. Even in the dark, the Americans could see the line of raised fur down the length of the animal’s back.
“You probably’d be best stayin’ still, you don’t want to get bit, I’d say. He don’t much take to you Redcoats.” Isaac suggested quietly. He saw Jack’s head emerge from the scuttle behind the dog.
The Royal Marine had unslung his musket and was raising it to his shoulder when Jack yelled.
“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake! Ain’t no need for that!” He quickly scrambled out of the hatch and dove for the dog, attempting to get a hand on its neck, but it was too late.
As the gun went off, sharp and unnaturally loud it seemed, Carronade launched himself at the soldier. Months of restraint coupled with a hated memory of abuse at the hands of like-appearing men fueled his spring and his jaws clamped onto the Englishman’s forearm. Of course, the shot went wild, burying itself in the mainmast, and bringing the watch to the stern taffrail of Tonnant. Amid snarls and screams, the pair fell to the deck; the musket clattered as it fell from the marine’s hands and slipped under the bulwark to land with a soft splash in the water alongside.
The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy Page 28