1812: The Navy's War

by George Daughan

  Two days later, after separating from Arthur Sinclair and the Argus, Decatur shaped a course that would take him to a watery highway midway between the Azores and the Cape Verde Islands. Northeast trade winds and ocean currents made this area ideal for stalking British ships traveling to the West Indies, South America, the Cape of Good Hope, the Indian Ocean, the Far East and around Cape Horn to the rich fishing grounds of the Eastern Pacific.

  Decatur could not have been more pleased. He was right where he had hoped to be when the war started—in command of the United States, operating alone, hunting for British warships and for glory. He was the navy’s premier officer, widely known and admired by the public and his peers for his heroic exploits during the war with Tripoli. He was following in the footsteps of his father, Stephen Decatur Sr., who was a naval hero during both the War of Independence and the Quasi-War with France. By coincidence, the United States was the first ship young Decatur had served on, coming aboard in 1798 as a nineteen-year-old midshipman during the Quasi-War with France. The Revolutionary War hero John Barry was her captain. Decatur would learn the arts of war and seamanship from Barry and from Lieutenant James Barron, who took a particular liking to him. Even back then, Decatur was a risk taker with an aggressive streak, yearning for adventure and combat. Six years later he would become a national hero when he led the Intrepid in her successful mission to destroy the captured American frigate Philadelphia in Tripoli harbor. For this amazing exploit President Jefferson promoted him to captain, the highest rank in the service. Decatur was only twenty-five at the time—the youngest man ever to hold the rank of captain in the history of the navy.

  Crewmen respected Decatur as much as his superiors. One who served under him remembered Decatur giving his men advice on how to be successful. “The first quality of a good seaman is personal courage,” he said. “The second [is] obedience to orders, the third, fortitude under sufferings; to these may be added, an ardent love of country. I need say no more—I am confident you posses them all.”

  WHILE DECATUR WAITED for his prey, Arthur Sinclair steered the Argus toward Cape St. Roque, at the eastern tip of Brazil. On the way he ran into a powerful six-ship British squadron. Two were battleships. He immediately threw on all sail and sped away, outdistancing their fastest ship. He continued on to the coast of Brazil and patrolled for a time before traveling to Surinam; finding nothing there, he cruised farther north in the Atlantic until his stores were so low he had to return home.

  Sinclair was away for ninety-six days with little to show for his effort except the capture on November 15 of the Ariadne, an American ship out of Boston that had stopped in Alexandria, Virginia, and picked up a cargo of flour for Wellington’s army, taking it under a British license to Cadiz, Spain’s largest port. Sinclair seized the vessel and gave command of her to his purser, Henry Denison, with orders to sail to the first port he could make in the United States. As luck would have it, Denison—flying British colors—was stopped soon after by two British cruisers, the sloop of war Tartarus and the brig Colibri. Denison deftly used the license to convince his captors to set him free. They even gave him nine American prisoners to help work the ship.

  Decatur, meanwhile, was having much better luck than Sinclair. The commodore spent nearly two weeks on his cruising grounds before lookouts at the fore and main mastheads spied what appeared to be a promising looking stranger two points on the weather bow. It was October 25, and the United States was in latitude 29° north, longitude 29° 30’ west, midway between the Azores and the Cape Verde Islands.

  At about the same time, lookouts aboard His Majesty’s 38-gun frigate Macedonian saw the United States. They were twelve miles apart. It was Sunday morning, just after the crew had finished breakfast. The men were looking forward to a day of idleness. In response to cries from lookouts of “Sail ho,” Captain John S. Carden shouted back, “Where away?” When one lookout shouted that she was a large frigate, Carden immediately cleared for action. A drum beat to quarters as the crew raced to their battle stations, and the ship, having the weather gauge, stood for what Carden hoped was an American man-of-war. He could not make out exactly who she was at this distance, but he had intelligence that the 32-gun Essex was in the vicinity. If that’s who this was, she would have little chance against the Macedonian, unless Carden got too close. The Essex’s guns (actually 46 in number) were nearly all forty-two-pound carronades, very effective at short range (five hundred yards or less) but useless at longer distances.

  Carden thought of running up and firing away with his long eighteens, just beyond the range of the Essex’s carronades. But as the two ships approached, it became obvious that the stranger was a much larger ship than the Essex. That didn’t faze Carden; he still intended to attack. In one-on-one duels the British had, almost without exception, crushed the ships of every other navy, often against seemingly impossible odds.

  As Carden examined the stranger, she appeared to be the United States, a ship he knew well. In February 1812, when he had sailed the Macedonian into Hampton Roads, Virginia, on a special mission, he met Decatur and had a good look at the United States. He was even invited to Decatur’s home with his officers, where they discussed the relative merits of their two frigates. They got along well, and Carden developed a liking for the young American hero.

  Despite his regard for Decatur, Carden was eager to do battle, and he had confidence in his ship, even though relations with the crew had been uneasy. The Macedonian was almost new, having been built at Woolwich and launched on June 2, 1810. And she had recently had a complete refit, so she was in excellent condition.

  It wasn’t long before John Card, an impressed American, came up to the captain and, acting as spokesman for the other Americans aboard, requested that they be excused from fighting their own countrymen. Carden glared menacingly at him and ordered him back to his station, threatening to shoot him and any others who didn’t want to fight. That settled the matter quickly, and Card returned to his gun crew.

  The United States was a notoriously slow sailer, which put her at a disadvantage, but she was far more powerful than her opponent. She carried 55 guns to the Macedonian’s 49. For a main battery the United States had thirty twenty-four-pounders on the main deck while the Macedonian had twenty-eight eighteen-pounders. The United States also carried twenty-two forty-two-pound carronades on her spar deck and two long twenty-four-pounders and an eighteen-pound carronade on her forecastle. The Macedonian had sixteen thirty-two-pound carronades on her spar deck and two long twelve-pounders, two long eight-pounders, and an eighteen-pound carronade on her forecastle. The United States had 478 hands to the Macedonian’s 306. Carden hoped his advantage in speed would offset Decatur’s firepower.

  The Macedonian’s main battery of eighteen-pounders was typical of British frigates. The Admiralty judged they were superior, all things considered, to the heavier twenty-fours on the big American frigates. This contest would test the Admiralty’s theory once more, just as the battle between the Constitution and the Guerriere had.

  Decatur now pulled to within three miles of the Macedonian and wore ship, trying to gain the weather gauge. But Carden was ready and foiled him by putting his helm to port and heading him off. Decatur then wore round again, and the two ships passed each other on opposite courses at about a mile’s distance. As they did Decatur unleashed two broadsides with his twenty-fours. The first fell short, but the second hit home.

  Judging the range to be too long for his eighteen-pounders, Carden held his fire and then wore round to keep the weather gauge, putting the Macedonian and United States on roughly parallel courses, where Decatur’s long twenty-four-pounders could be employed to full advantage. Decatur had assiduously prepared his men for just such a battle. The first lieutenant, William Allen, had trained the gun crews to a point where they were probably the finest afloat. They would need to be to cope with the veteran Carden.

  Lieutenant Allen had been with Decatur for five years and was considered by many to be the be
st first mate in the American fleet. Rodgers, Bainbridge, and Decatur had all vied for his services. Allen had worked under each of them at one time or another and knew them intimately. By choosing Decatur, and sticking with him, he indicated just how good Decatur was himself. But would their skill be enough?

  As Carden attempted to close with the United States, Allen’s gunners, even in the heavy swell that was running, found their mark. Their murderous broadsides kept smashing into the Macedonian, tearing her up, inflicting gruesome carnage on her decks, killing and wounding dozens of men. One of the dead was the American John Card.

  Captain Carden reported later that he “soon found the enemy’s force too superior to expect success.” But he would not relent. Hoping for a miracle, believing it unthinkable for a British frigate to strike her colors to an American, he continued the action long after he realized that his situation was hopeless and he was needlessly prolonging a bloodbath.

  Meanwhile, Decatur slowed the United States to allow the Macedonian to get closer, while Lieutenant Allen’s gunners continued blasting away. By now the Macedonian was in bad shape. Her main topmast was shot away by the caps, the main yard was smashed to pieces, several shots had hit her below the water line, the lower masts were badly damaged, the lower rigging was cut up, and all the guns on the quarterdeck and the forecastle were disabled but two. While she lay helpless—filled with wreckage—her crew was being killed and wounded at a horrific rate.

  Decatur now maneuvered the United States, which had suffered hardly at all, into a position from which she could rake the Macedonian and crush her completely. But Decatur held his fire, hoping Carden would see the hopelessness of his situation and not force him to completely destroy the Macedonian, for he wanted to take her home as a prize and be one up on Hull, who had been compelled to sink the Guerriere.

  Carden had no idea why his ship was being granted a reprieve. For a moment he fancied that the United States was as wounded as the Macedonian and might even in the next instant flee. Within moments his entire mizzenmast went overboard, however, and as it did, he had another look at the United States. He could see that she had not left but was simply waiting and could renew her assault at any time. He finally grasped how desperate his situation was, and to prevent further killing, he called a council of officers, who agreed to surrender, except for the first lieutenant, David Hope—a savage, sadistic disciplinarian—who urged fighting to the death.

  The battle had been a stunning victory for the United States. Out of a crew of 306, Carden had 36 killed and 68 wounded, 36 of them severely. The United States was barely touched. She had 12 casualties—5 killed and 7 wounded. Two of the wounded, Lieutenant John Mercer Funk of Philadelphia and John Archibald of New York, later died. Decatur reported that the ship was in condition to continue her cruise, but he wanted to get the Macedonian back to the United States and never considered sending her to America with a prize crew while he carried on. Not only was he anxious to display his personal prowess at home, but the effects of another victory at sea on American morale would be enormous, far more valuable than capturing more merchantmen unseen by the public.

  Decatur sent a longboat to pick up Carden, who was waiting, having changed into his best uniform and sword. Crestfallen, he seated himself in the stern sheets for the melancholy ride over to the United States. He stepped through the entry port believing he was the first British captain to surrender a frigate to an American. The thought sickened him. When he offered his sword, Decatur, like Hull, refused to take it from so gallant and brave an opponent. Decatur informed Carden that he was not the first to surrender; that dubious honor had already gone to Dacres in the Guerriere. The miserable British skipper was somewhat mollified, but not much.

  For a veteran, Carden’s performance had been dismal. He never used the Macedonian’s speed to good effect; his pedestrian tactics had consistently played into Decatur’s hands. The poor relations he had with his crew were his own doing. He had not curbed his cruel first lieutenant. Carden’s humiliation was as much his own fault as it was Decatur’s. In more skillful hands the Macedonian could have put up a much better fight, even if she would have ultimately succumbed to an American ship that had one of the best fighting crews afloat.

  When men from the United States arrived to take charge on the Macedonian, the British tars were so angry and depressed—and not a little drunk from having broken into the spirits—that they were in a mood to resume the fight hand to hand, even though their wounded mates were all around suffering indescribable pain. But when the tars observed how decently the Americans were treating them, they calmed down, and not very long afterward, the two crews melded together as if they were no longer enemies. “We ate together, drank together, joked, sung, laughed, [and] told yarns,” one of the British seamen remembered. “In short, a perfect union of ideas, feelings, and purposes, seemed to exist among all hands.”

  Decatur spent two weeks preparing the battered Macedonian for the long voyage to the American coast. When he started the repairs, she had so many shot holes below the water line that she would have sunk had he not worked fast to fother them and stabilize her. He gave Lieutenant Allen the honor of sailing her home. Getting back to New York safely would be a tricky proposition, however. British cruisers could be anywhere, particularly around New York. But as luck would have it, the United States and the Macedonian sailed straight home without seeing a single enemy warship, although they did see many other ships and even had to fight a three-day storm, which seriously threatened the jury-rigged Macedonian . When they reached the American coast, Decatur put into New London, but a sudden shift in the wind made it impossible for the Macedonian to follow. She was forced to stand off and on for several hours before Lieutenant Allen managed to sail her into Newport, his hometown, on December 5.

  Oliver Hazard Perry, the naval commander at Newport, was ecstatic—and more than a little jealous—when Allen sailed in unexpectedly with the first and only defeated British frigate ever to be brought into an American port. Even though Rhode Island was strongly Federalist and antiwar, Newport gave Allen a hero’s welcome. So did Federalist New London when Decatur arrived.

  People in Great Britain, of course, were crestfallen. The Times of London cried, “Oh! what a charm is thereby dissolved! What hopes will be excited in the breasts of our enemies! The land-spell of the French is broken and so is our sea-spell.

  “We have sunk our own maritime character; for, with a navy that could admit of no competition, we have suffered ourselves to be beaten in detail, by a power that we should not have allowed to send a vessel to sea.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Constitution and the Java

  ON OCTOBER 26, 1812, Commodore William Bainbridge and the Constitution sortied from Boston accompanied by the Hornet, under Master Commandant James Lawrence, to begin their cruise as Secretary Hamilton had ordered in September. The third member of Bainbridge’s squadron, Captain Porter’s Essex, was still in the Delaware River completing repairs and taking on supplies for a long voyage. Bainbridge did not wait for her. He sent Porter instructions to visit several rendezvous points where they might meet, and then set sail.

  Bainbridge would have preferred leaving Boston when Rodgers and Decatur did, but the Constitution needed extensive repairs after her fight with the Guerriere. Her lower masts and several spars had to be replaced, and an entire new gang of standing rigging installed. In addition, patches were required for the hull. Bainbridge drove the navy yard hard, requiring men to work even on the Sabbath—no small demand in puritanical Boston. After the repairs were completed, Bainbridge loaded the Constitution with four to five months’ provisions and one hundred days of water.

  While repairing his ship, Bainbridge had to soothe the wounded feelings of Master Commandant Lawrence, who was threatening to resign from the navy. Lawrence was miffed that Charles Morris had been promoted from lieutenant to captain, skipping the grade of master commandant. Lawrence acknowledged that Morris was a fine officer and had
performed brilliantly in the fight with the Guerriere, but he thought he had just as good a claim to promotion. Lawrence pointed out that he had been in the navy since the Quasi-War with France and had performed heroically as well, most notably during the burning of the Philadelphia in February 1804, when he was Stephen Decatur’s first lieutenant aboard the Intrepid.

  Bainbridge took Lawrence’s side and protested to Hamilton. “I do not think that he [Morris] or any lieutenant ought to be promoted over all the master commandants to captain,” he wrote. “We have some very valuable officers in the class of master commandants. No man can excel Captain [Master Commandant] Lawrence in the character of a brave and valuable officer.” Since the days of Benjamin Stoddert during the Adams administration, merit and experience had been the navy’s principal criteria for promotion above midshipman. But for the officers in this deeply conservative service, seniority weighed more heavily than it did for their civilian bosses. Giving a man—however meritorious—a double promotion over so many others went against the grain.

  Master Commandant Arthur Sinclair also wrote to Hamilton, objecting to Morris’s unusual promotion. The secretary would not change his mind, however, and when the high-strung, impulsive Lawrence threatened to resign, Hamilton was furious. “Your letter of the 10th . . . has reached me,” he fired back on October 17. “The suggestion with which that letter concludes prevents an answer in detail, and confines me to the single observation, that [if] without cause you leave the service of our country, there will still remain heroes and patriots to support the honor of its flag.”