By the end of August 1814 Admiral Cochrane’s raids had been eminently successful. He had captured and burned the American capital and embarrassed Madison, and he had acquired a large chunk of Maine with no opposition. Smaller raids along the coast had also gone well. More importantly, his attacks did not unite Federalists and Republicans, as might have been expected; the country remained divided. The political parties were as bitterly opposed to one another as they had always been, perhaps even more so. Madison was desperately trying to hold the country together and continue the war. But his chances of withstanding the British invasions that were coming from the north and the south appeared extremely poor. Admiral Cochrane, on the other hand, as he prepared to tackle Baltimore and then New Orleans, was flush with victory, his confidence at a high level.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The War at Sea Continues in 1814
WHILE JOSHUA BARNEY, John Rodgers, David Porter, Oliver Hazard Perry, and their colleagues were engaged in fighting Cochrane’s raids along the eastern seaboard, the blue-water fleet was still active, getting to sea and performing missions that would win it even more esteem from the Royal Navy. The growing respect commanded by the American fleet would be one of the more important outcomes of the war. The actions of single ships at sea might have appeared to have little relevance to the outcome of the war, but in fact they were of great consequence. Not every cruise was successful, but those that were had a decided impact on British views about the potency of American arms. London’s newfound respect for the American navy would be an important factor in shaping the peace to come.
On the afternoon of December 31, 1813, during a wintry gale, Charles Stewart ran the Constitution out of Boston. The blockaders had been blown off their station. As Stewart raced out to sea, he shaped a course for the northern coast of South America, and on January 14 he encountered two strange sails. The first turned out to be an American schooner, and he never caught up with the second. The next day he encountered a warship that turned out to be Portuguese. The remainder of January was just as frustrating. On February 1 lookouts spied a sail off Georgetown, Guyana, and gave chase, but when she ran too close to shore, Stewart turned away. Two days later, he finally spied a British warship, the 18-gun Mosquito. Her captain threw on all sail and ran in close to shore, where the water was too shallow for the Constitution to follow. Stewart had to back off once more. On February 8 he chased the 18-gun brig HMS Columbine, but he could not catch her before dark, and she escaped.
Figure 25.1: Irwin Bevan, Escape of the Constitution, 3 April 1814 (courtesy of Mariner’s Museum, Newport News, Virginia).
Finally, on February 14 Stewart made his first captures—a merchantman in the morning and the 18-gun British schooner Picton in the afternoon. Two days later, he captured another small merchantman, and the next day he took one off Grenada. He then shaped a course for Puerto Rico. On February 23, after passing through the Mona Passage, he finally saw what he wanted, the 36-gun British frigate Pique. Both ships cleared for action, but the Pique, following the Admiralty’s orders, ran away. Stewart went after her, but he was becalmed for a time, while the Pique had enough wind to stay ahead until darkness allowed her to escape.
Stewart then steered north, expecting to see some action. His bad luck continued, however. As he approached the New England coast, he had not seen either a convoy or another warship since passing the Bahamas. Then, on April 3, when he was approaching Boston, two frigates came into view, the 38-gun Tenedos and the 38-gun Junon, sailing in company. They immediately gave chase. What a prize the Constitution would be. Stewart threw on every sail, lightened his ship, and barely managed to reach Marblehead Harbor, where the British ships, respectful of the town’s defenses, did not follow. When later bad weather gave Stewart an opening, he left Marblehead and sailed the fourteen miles back to Boston.
His frustrations from an unproductive voyage were exacerbated when Secretary Jones demanded to know why he had returned so soon. Commodore Bainbridge—no friend of Stewart’s—was in charge in Boston, and he recommended a court of inquiry. It convened on May 2. Bainbridge and Oliver Hazard Perry, who had come up from Newport, were the only members of the court. Stewart explained that scurvy had broken out on board, he was low on water and food, and the mainmast was in such poor shape she might have given way at any time. Perry was uncomfortable during the proceedings, which he considered a needless waste of time. No court-martial was recommended. Bainbridge noted that he thought Stewart should not have returned so soon, and that was the end of the matter. Stewart immediately went back to work preparing the Constitution for her next cruise.
THE FIRST OF the new sloops of war to get to sea was the 22-gun Frolic, named after the ship taken by the Wasp in 1812. Master Commandant Joseph Bainbridge (the commodore’s younger brother) was her skipper. She carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades; two long eighteens; and a crew of a hundred and sixty. Bainbridge stood out from Boston in February, using a storm to avoid the blockade, and shaped a course for the Caribbean—Secretary Jones’s preferred hunting grounds. Bainbridge captured two prizes before spotting a pair of strangers on April 20, sailing in company near Matanzas on Cuba’s north coast. They were the British 36-gun frigate Orpheus (Captain Hugh Pigot) accompanied by the 12-gun schooner Shelburne (Lieutenant David Pope). Bainbridge identified them immediately and fled, while they threw on all sail and tore after him. The chase continued for sixty miles. Bainbridge lightened the Frolic in every way he could, including jettisoning her guns, but to no avail, and he was forced to surrender. Unexpectedly, Pigot allowed the Orpheus’s crew to pillage the captured ship and her crew, something Bainbridge never would have permitted. Hatred of the American navy ran high among some officers in the Royal Navy.
The Peacock, named for the ship that Lawrence sank in the Hornet, had a much different experience. Noah and Adam Brown built her in New York, launching her on September 19, 1813. She had a hundred forty men and carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades and two long twelve-pounders. Her skipper, Master Commandant Lewis Warrington, was an ambitious fighter. He eluded the blockading squadron and slipped out of New York on March 12, 1814, sailing first to St. Mary’s, Georgia. On the way, Warrington saw a number of larger British warships, but he successfully evaded them. He had orders to rendezvous with the President, but she remained trapped in New York.
While waiting for Decatur and the President to escape, Warrington cruised south to an area off Great Isaac, a Bahamian cay twenty miles north-northeast of Bimini—an excellent place to intercept a convoy coming from Jamaica or Cuba. When Warrington obtained intelligence that the Jamaica convoy he was expecting had powerful escorts, however, he changed his mind about attacking it and sailed north.
On April 29 a small convoy of three merchantmen out of Havana appeared off Cape Canaveral (now Cape Kennedy). The brig Epervier, under Commander Richard Wales, was guarding them. She carried eighteen thirty-two-pound carronades and 101 men. When the convoy spotted the Peacock, the merchantmen ran, while the Epervier steered toward the enemy and beat to quarters. Warrington, in turn, sailed to meet the Epervier and prepared for battle.
Approaching from opposite directions, the two ships closed quickly. The fight began at 10:20, with both ships sailing on opposite tacks, firing guns from their starboard sides. After Epervier raced past the Peacock, she turned downwind and sailed a parallel course to the Peacock’s, firing her port broadside, which disabled the Peacock’s foresail and foretopsail. But Warrington’s jibs remained intact, and he kept his ship a little off the wind, which was blowing from the south, and delivered one devastating broadside after another, crushing the Epervier , whose gunnery, after the opening rounds, was remarkably poor.
In desperation, Wales tried to organize a boarding party, but his crew, thinking it would be suicide, refused. They appeared to be a disgruntled lot, and their marksmanship showed it. It was apparent that, as in most British cruisers, the crew had been given little or no practice at the guns. The battle lasted for
forty-five minutes. At the end of it, the Epervier was a wreck, with forty-five shots in her hull and five feet of water in her hold and rising. She had eight killed and fifteen wounded, while the Peacock had two wounded and none killed.
The dissatisfaction of Epervier’s men had been in evidence long before she met the Peacock. Two months earlier, the Epervier, with the same crew, had captured the privateer Alfred out of Salem, Massachusetts. The privateer carried sixteen long nine-pounders and a crew of 108. While the Epervier sailed with her prize to Halifax, the prisoners conspired with Epervier’s prize crew to take over the Alfred—and possibly the Epervier herself—and run them into Salem. A sudden gale put the mutineers’ scheme on hold while they fought the storm. Before the gale was over, Captain Wales reached Halifax with Epervier and the Alfred, putting an end to the mutineers’ plans. This same crew fought the Peacock . British Admiral Edward Codrington insisted (privately) that the disgruntlement among crews in the Royal Navy was caused by the hands being “tyrannically treated.”
By nightfall, Warrington had the Epervier repaired and headed north for Savannah. On the way he examined the prize and found to his amazement that she was carrying $118,000 in specie. His joy was short-lived, however. During the night, he discovered two British frigates nearby and immediately sent the Epervier to sail close to shore, while he drove the Peacock south and escaped. The Epervier appeared at the mouth of the Savannah River on May 2 and the Peacock two days later.
After repairing his ship in Savannah, Warrington, having given up the idea of a rendezvous with the President, set out from Savannah on June 4 intent on pursuing an independent course. He sailed first to the Grand Banks and then to the Azores. From there he went to Ireland, traveling up the west coast, and then around the north of Ireland to the Shetland Islands off Scotland’s northeast coast. From there, he turned northwest and sailed to the remote Faroe Islands, 62˚ north, halfway between Scotland’s northern coast and Iceland. He then retraced his steps, sailing back down Ireland’s west coast and from there to the Bay of Biscay and along the Spanish coast. He then headed for the West Indies and cruised there for a time before traveling north along the American coast and, on October 30, slipping into New York, where he became part of Decatur’s squadron.
During this long voyage in the months of July and August, Warrington captured fourteen prizes. He burned twelve, as Jones had ordered, and two he used as cartels to ferry prisoners to England. It was one of the most successful voyages of the war, confirming Jones’s belief in the sloops of war.
ON THE FIRST of May the Peacock’s sister ship Wasp departed Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on her first cruise. She had been built in nearby Newburyport, Massachusetts, and commissioned at Portsmouth; her skipper was Master Commandant Johnston Blakeley. She had a crew of 173 and carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades and two long twelve-pounders—a fast, potent ship with an aggressive commander.
Blakeley shaped a course to take him one hundred to two hundred miles south of the Irish coast at the approaches to the English Channel—perfect hunting grounds for a commerce raider. On the way he captured a prize on June 2 and another on June 13, when he was on station. During the next fifteen days, Blakeley took seven additional merchantmen, burning all except one, which he used as a cartel ship to ferry prisoners to England.
On June 28, in latitude 48½˚ north and longitude 11˚ east, the Wasp spied the 18-gun Reindeer, under Captain William Manners, out of Plymouth, England. It was four o’clock in the morning. By ten the two ships were closing and signaling, and by one o’clock they both cleared for action. The Reindeer was much inferior to the Wasp. She had sixteen twenty-four-pound carronades, two long guns, and a crew of 118. Not only was Manners at a disadvantage in men and caliber of guns, but his ship was made of inferior Baltic fir. The Reindeer was well led, however, and had an excellent crew. She was as unlike the Epervier as two similar ships in the same service could be. She had the weather gauge, but the wind was unreliable. The gallant British captain pressed forward, intent on fighting an obviously stronger enemy. He approached on the Wasp’s weather quarter. His only chance was to use the weather gauge to cross the Wasp’s stern or bow, rake her, and then board. His first lieutenant, Thomas Chambers, had drilled the men hard in hand-to-hand combat.
Manners fired the first shot at 3:15. Blakely responded by putting his helm alee and turning the Wasp to the right. The Reindeer crossed the Wasp’s bows, however, and raked her, but her shots did not have the devastating effect that Manners, who was wounded in the early going, expected. The two ships then ran parallel to each other at close range, Blakeley firing his deadly thirty-two-pounders and crushing the weaker ship. The ships now came together, and Manners tried to board. As he was crossing over, however, he was killed and his first lieutenant severely wounded. Manners’s well-trained men continued trying to board, but after savage hand-to-hand fighting, Blakeley’s crew pushed them back before they ever reached the Wasp’s deck. Blakeley’s men then boarded the Reindeer , and she quickly surrendered. The battle was over in nineteen minutes. The Reindeer was in terrible condition. She suffered twenty-three killed and forty-two wounded—over half her crew—while the Wasp had eleven killed and eighteen seriously injured.
The Reindeer was so badly torn up that Blakeley burned her and then proceeded to L’Orient, on France’s west coast, to repair his ship. On the way he took two more prizes. The reception he got in the French port could not have been more hospitable. Even though France had a new monarch friendly to Britain, her people had not all of a sudden fallen in love with the English. “We have experienced every civility from the public authorities,” Blakeley wrote to Jones. The British ambassador protested, but to no avail. The French allowed Blakeley to remain at L’Orient for seven weeks, restoring his ship and his crew.
On August 27 Blakeley sortied from L’Orient in his refurbished ship. In the next four days he took three British merchantmen and burned them. On September 1 he happened on an enemy convoy and managed to destroy the munitions transport Mary. One of the convoy’s escorts, the 74-gun Armada, tore after him, but he raced away and easily eluded her.
Later in the afternoon of the same day, Blakeley spotted the 18-gun brig Avon, under Captain James Arbuthnot. She had been sailing in company with the 18-gun Castillian, under Captain David Braimer, and two other warships, but she got separated from them. The Wasp chased her, and by 8:45 in the evening, Blakeley was up with her. After some preliminary maneuvering and a broadside from each, the two ships closed to within half pistol shot of each other and blazed away. The smaller Avon, although well managed, could not stand the brutal fire, and when her mainmast fell at ten o’clock, she was in dire straits. It took ten more minutes and more punishment from the Wasp, however, before she finally submitted. The Avon had ten killed and thirty-two wounded. The Wasp had two killed and one wounded.
During the battle, the Castillian had seen the Avon’s distress signals and raced toward her. But by the time Braimer arrived, the Avon had surrendered, and she was sinking fast. Blakeley had already pulled away to force the Castillian to rescue the Avon’s crew and to gain some distance while he repaired his ship. The Castillian fired at the Wasp as she departed but did little additional damage, and then turned to help the doomed Avon. Working frantically, Braimer was able to get the Avon’s crew off just before she sank. While she did, Blakeley saw two additional warships steering toward the scene, whereupon he threw on all sail and disappeared into the night.
During the next three weeks, the Wasp sailed south, capturing three more merchantmen, the last being the Atlanta, on September 21, a hundred miles east of Madeira. Blakeley sent her to Savannah, where she arrived on November 4. Midshipman David Geisinger was in command, and he brought Blakeley’s dispatches for Secretary Jones.
Three weeks later, on October 9, nine hundred miles farther south, the Swedish brig Adonis, bound for Falmouth, England, from Rio de Janeiro, encountered the Wasp. The brig had aboard two American officers who were anxious t
o transfer to the American warship—Lieutenant Stephen Decatur McKnight and Acting Midshipman James R. Lyman, both from the frigate Essex. They were on their way to England to testify in the condemnation proceedings for the Essex, which had been defeated in Valparaiso six months before. The chance meeting with the Adonis is the last that was ever heard of the Wasp; she never returned to port. Blakeley was probably on his way to the West Indies and met with a disaster of some sort, most likely a ferocious storm. It was hurricane season, and one of them probably sank the Wasp.
IN EARLY JANUARY 1814, Captain Charles Morris sailed the newly converted 28-gun corvette Adams to the mouth of the Potomac River and waited for an opportunity to run the blockade at the Chesapeake Capes. On January 18, he saw his chance. A strong northwest wind was blowing with occasional snow squalls. The Adams stood out from the river at five o’clock in the afternoon and made a run for it, moving fast with little visibility and poor pilots. As she plunged ahead in dim light, correct soundings were impossible. When the ship approached Middle Ground Shoals at the entrance to the bay, she struck ground once, then twice. The swell, however, pushed her into deeper water, and she was suddenly free. More importantly, she wasn’t leaking. Morris did not know where she was exactly. The pilots disagreed. Unwilling to be imprisoned in the bay any longer, Morris sailed on. At midnight, when he was passing Lynnhaven Bay, he saw two enemy ships, and they could see the Adams. But she was traveling at twelve and a half knots and raced by them, passing Cape Henry without seeing the land. By daylight, Morris was well out to sea. He knew he had been lucky.
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