by Ron Carter
“You expect that proclamation will turn this whole thing?”
McArthur answered, “A piece of paper? It might scare a few Canadians. But it won’t scare the British army.”
Cass continued, “You reckon this general can lead in battle?”
McArthur answered quietly, “I have my doubts.”
Behind them, in the privacy of his office, Hull dipped quill in ink, drew and released a great breath, and began scratching.
“Secretary of War William Eustis:
“. . . I acknowledge your orders received this date directing me to lead my force across the Detroit River and reduce Fort Malden and surrounding area to our possession. I must state that I am in doubt that my forces are equal to the demand your orders place on them, and advise the administration that it must not be too sanguine. . . .”
He laid the quill on his desk and read what he had written. For a time he leaned back, staring at the document. Then he resolutely folded it, addressed it, reached for the wax and sealed it, then walked to the door and out into the foyer where Sergeant Wellington stood to face him.
“Sergeant, would you see to it this message is delivered at once?”
“Yes, sir.” Wellington took the document and watched Hull walk back into his office before he read the address. He raised his eyes and stared at the closed door with a strong feeling of concern rising in his chest.
Secretary of War William Eustis? Washington, D.C.? What’s happened?
Notes
General William Hull, who was also governor of the territory of Michigan, was commissioned by Secretary of War William Eustis to lead a force of close to two thousand to Fort Detroit. The force was largely constituted of Ohio volunteers, appointed by the Ohio governor Return Jonathan Meigs, who in his eagerness awarded too many officers’ commissions to his Ohio volunteers, resulting in three full colonels, among them Lewis Cass, James Findlay, and Duncan McArthur. These three fell into hot debate about who should be senior, and the matter was referred to the secretary of war, the president, Governor Meigs, and finally back to General Hull for resolution by Hull, who determined McArthur had been appointed two weeks prior to the others and would serve as the senior colonel. The Ohio volunteers quickly decided that General Hull was too old, too disabled by his recent stroke, and far too indecisive to lead them into battle, and their dim view of their commander soon spread throughout most of the command. Their opinion was much enhanced when the entire command saw the debacle of Hull nearly falling from his horse during the parade review just prior to their marching, in which he lost both stirrups, his hat, and his dignity by lunging to clutch at the horse’s mane to save himself. Hull’s column cut a new road from Ohio to Detroit and arrived July 5, 1812, still not knowing the United States had declared war on England. The description of Fort Detroit, the village of Detroit, and the river are accurate. General Hull never recovered all the papers lost to the British when they captured the schooner Cuyahoga on July 3, 1812, which papers acquainted the British general Brock, commanding officer at Fort Malden, across the river, with the entire plan for taking and occupying Canada. The orders General Hull received from Secretary of War Eustis directed him to immediately cross the Detroit River and take Fort Malden, then extend his conquests “as circumstances may justify,” all of which was an attempt by the inept Eustis to take pressure off the failing assault that was underway hundreds of miles to the east, at Niagara and Montreal. At about that same time, Hull received notice from the American Indian agent at Fort Wayne that there were already about eighteen hundred Indians from various tribes gathered at Fort Malden, under the leadership of Shawnee chief Tecumseh, willing to join the British in the war against the United States. Despite the frightening news, Hull determined to follow his orders, but in a confirming letter back to Eustis on July 9, 1812, Hull served notice that he doubted whether his forces would be equal to the demand and that the “administration therefore must not be too sanguine.”
See Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 194–201; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–81; Wills, James Madison, pp. 100–103; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 27–28.
Atlantic Ocean, east of the New Jersey Coast
July 17, 1812
CHAPTER XV
* * *
Midday mess for His Majesty’s Ship Shannon was two hours past, and her officers and crew were at their stations, quiet, squinting in the fierce afternoon sun, studying the flat line where the green-black Atlantic met the pale blue of a cloudless July sky. Due west twelve miles, just beyond the horizon, was Barnegat Bay in the southern reaches of the state of New Jersey. To the north, south, and east was the open sea. Under orders of British vice admiral Sawyer, Captain Philip Vere Broke had led a squadron of British frigates to cruise the east coast of America with the object of attacking any seagoing vessel flying American colors and creating as much havoc as possible. The squadron assigned the task consisted of the Shannon with thirty-eight guns, the Belvidera with thirty-six cannon under command of Captain Richard Byron, the Africa with sixty-four cannon under command of Captain John Bastian, the Aeolus with thirty-two guns under command of Captain Lord James Townsend, and the Guerriere with thirty-eight cannon under command of Captain James Richard Dacres. They were five frigates flying the British Union Jack, carrying two hundred eight cannon, ranking among the best in the most powerful navy in the world and commanded by some of the finest seagoing officers in the king’s military service.
The crews felt no panic, since the entire American navy consisted of less than twenty fighting ships, and most of them were scattered far to the north, some in the Great Lakes. There wasn’t the faintest possibility that there were enough American gunboats within two hundred miles to make a fight of it against the firepower and the skill of the British squadron. For the British crews, it was just a matter of finding another American ship, taking her crew and cargo captive, and burning her at sea. The British crews remained calm, watchful, ready to pursue and destroy.
In his small quarters high above the water at the stern of the Shannon, squadron commander Broke sat at his small desk, leaning forward, rereading his entry in the ship’s log for the previous day. Slender, dark-haired and dark-eyed, hawk-nosed with a cleft chin, he followed the words with one finger.
“July 16th ’12.
“. . . sighted, pursued, and captured United States brig Nautilus, 14 guns . . . Lieutenant Crane commanding . . . he attempted flight to avoid capture . . . threw all cannon overboard to lighten her . . . took entire crew prisoner with all items of value . . . set her afire . . . confirm that she sank . . . no casualties in our squadron. . . .”
Satisfied, he plucked up his quill and signed his name. He salted the wet ink, blew the crumbs into a small basket for waste, set the log in its desk drawer, and turned to open the two small windows behind him, hoping for a stir of air in the heat of the summer afternoon. He was settling back into his chair when the call came from the crow’s nest, seventy feet up the mainmast.
“Sail ahead to the windward! American!”
Broke grabbed his telescope and was buttoning his tunic as he trotted up the few stairs from his cabin onto the main deck, then up to the quarterdeck. He jerked his telescope to full extension and carefully scanned the horizon to the southeast, and it was there—the small pyramid of sails on two masts, with the tiny flag of red and white stripes, and the blue field with specks of white, fluttering in the mild breeze. For ten seconds he tracked her to take a reading on her bearing and anything that would tell him that the American ship had seen his squadron.
The British ships were traveling southwest, angling toward the New Jersey coast. The American frigate was traveling northeast, out into the open Atlantic.
Broke lowered his telescope. “She’s heading for the open sea! I think she’s seen us. I think she intends trying to sail around us.” A smile tugged as he gave his orders to his first mate, Gerald Laughlin.
“Mister Laughlin, I think the Americans are going to try to go around us. Make
a chase of it. Signal the Guerriere. Captain Dacres is to take a heading to the east by northeast. Get to the east of the Americans and cut off their attempt to escape.”
“Aye, sir.” Laughlin, sandy-red hair, long, bright-red sideburns, round, ruddy face, built strong, clearly and proudly Irish, turned and trotted away. Within minutes the signal flags were run up the mainmast, and the Guerriereabruptly changed course from southwest to southeast, angling to force the oncoming American ship back into the trap that was being laid with four British gunboats on one side, and a fast frigate with thirty-eight guns on the other.
Broke cupped his hand to call up to the crow’s nest. “When you can, get a count of her guns, and identify her.”
“Aye, sir.”
All eyes in the British squadron were on the American ship, straining to get out into the open Atlantic to escape the five gunboats. Minutes became one hour before the call came from the crow’s nest.
“Frigate, sir. I count forty-four guns, all on the top deck. If I read it right, sir, she’s the Constitution.”
For a split second every man on the Shannon stopped dead in his tracks to stare at the distant sails with the tiny flag fluttering, and Captain Broke took a deep breath with his thoughts running.
If that’s the Constitution, she’s a Joshua Humphreys frigate. That Yankee Quaker designed the best in the world—all guns on one deck—more armor in the hull than any other frigate—more canvas—smaller draft—carry four hundred fifty men and supplies and armament and still outrun and outmaneuver any other gunboat afloat—our parliament tried to get him to build frigates for us, but he refused—took them to the United States instead.
He turned to Laughlin. “Do you recall who might be in command of the Constitution?”
The first mate’s brow knitted down as he concentrated. “Seems to me it was Hull. Captain Isaac Hull.”
For several seconds Broke reached into his memory. “Isn’t Hull the one they sent to Detroit? To take Fort Malden?”
“That was General William Hull, sir,” Laughlin replied. “Isaac Hull is his nephew. William Hull is army. Isaac Hull is navy.”
“What is his reputation? Isaac Hull?”
Laughlin drew a deep breath. “Very good, sir. At times, brilliant. If that’s a Joshua Humphreys frigate out there, and Isaac Hull is in command, this could become most interesting.”
For a moment Brock clamped his mouth, and his eyes were alive as he said quietly, “We’ll see about that. We’ll see.”
Both men turned to peer to the northeast for a time, judging the speed of the Guerriere, calculating when she would pass to the east of the Constitution and force her back to the west, into the four British ships that were waiting to spring the trap. Minutes passed before Laughlin turned to Broke.
“Sir, it is going to be close. Perhaps the Constitution will win the race for position.”
Broke shook his head. “She won’t escape, but the two of them might be on a collision course out there.” He glanced at the sun. “I think Hull is playing for time. Hopes to stall this pursuit until dark.”
Laughlin wiped at his mouth. “Outmaneuver five of us? Most unlikely, sir.”
While they watched, the Constitution changed course to due east with the Guerriere straining to intercept her. With the westering sun hot at his back, Laughlin’s arm shot up to point, voice high, excited.
“I think the Constitution is squaring for a fight.”
Broke nodded but remained silent, while the thought flickered in his mind. I wonder what Captain Isaac Hull plans to do—how he sees this—one American frigate against five British gunboats—he can’t fight us all—his only chance is to beat us in a race for an American port—how does he plan to do it?—what’s in his mind?
Three miles to the east, Captain Isaac Hull stood on his quarterdeck, telescope extended, studying the Guerriere coming in two miles ahead of him, to the north. Then he turned to watch the other four British gunboats due west. Medium height, nose too long and pointed, eyes wide-set, chin slightly receding, dark-haired, Hull’s voice was steady, controlled, as he gave his orders.
“Helmsman, steady as she goes for two more minutes, then hard to port.”
“Aye, sir.”
The two minutes seemed too long before the frigate turned left, leaning right, and the crew leaned opposite to keep their footing. While they watched, the Guerriere, almost dead ahead, made a hard turn to starboard to take a heading to the west that would bring her directly across the course taken by the Constitution, but far out of gun range. Half an hour later the Guerriere was past the Constitution and slowing, and Hull called to his helmsman, “Steady as she goes.” He turned to his gun crews. “Open all gun ports and prepare to load.”
He called to his young navigator, twenty feet away on the quarterdeck silently watching everything. “Mister Dunson! What is our depth? Are we clear to maneuver without fear of reefs or sandbars?”
The answer came instantly. “About sixty-five fathoms where we are, sir. It reduces to about fourteen fathoms to the north of us, but there is no danger of reefs or sandbars or shallow water within about two hundred miles. To the west, near the coast, there are reefs.”
“Stand by on the quarterdeck. See to it you keep me advised if there is danger.”
“Aye, sir.”
On board the Guerriere, Captain Dacres stared at the oncoming Constitution in amazement. She’s not turning! She intends engaging us if she must! One against five? What is she counting on?
He glanced at the sun, half set, catching the sails and the flags to set them glowing like fire, casting long shadows eastward.
Darkness? If he intends slipping away in darkness, why is he coming dead on to engage us? Dacres suddenly turned to peer behind the Guerriere, then carefully swept the horizon in all directions for distant sails beneath American flags. There were none.
Are there other American gunboats coming? Does the Constitution have a squadron out there in waiting, listening for cannon fire? Or is he bluffing?
He spoke to his helmsman. “Hard to port. Take a new heading due north, parallel with the Constitution but one mile west of her. We will come alongside her within gun range gradually.”
“Aye, sir.”
With the ship turning, Dacres called up to his crow’s nest, “Keep a sharp eye in all directions. Report immediately if American ships come into view.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cautiously the Guerriere took up a position just over one mile west of the Constitution, and with the sun already set and dusk setting in, began to close the distance slowly, watching for unexpected sails or lights from any direction. The afterglow of the sun faded and was gone. The evening star rose prominent in the east, and still the two ships held their course north, with the four ships companion to the Guerriere lost in the distance and the darkness. The light breeze began to dwindle. The sails fell limp, and both ships slowed to a near standstill.
In the full darkness of ten o’clock, Captain Isaac Hull, on the quarterdeck, called for his first mate, Erling Strand, blonde, blue-eyed, jutting chin, ponderous, speaking English with a strong Swedish accent.
“Get the signal lanterns and start sending messages so the Guerriere can see them.”
Strand stared at him in the darkness for a moment. “What messages, sir?”
“‘We are engaged with the British. Come immediately.’ Repeat it until I give orders to stop.”
A slow smile crossed the big man’s face. “Aye, sir.”
Within minutes the lanterns were on the quarterdeck in the hands of a bos’n’s mate who could send and read the signals of both navies. The shutter began to click, and the light reached out across the black waters.
On board the British Guerriere, Dacres and Laughlin both stopped dead on the quarterdeck, their heads thrust forward in disbelief. Light signals? For whom?
“Can you read them?” Dacres exclaimed.
For a full five minutes, both men, and most of their crew, stood at the rails
of the scarcely moving ship. Then Laughlin’s Irish brogue came, too high, excited.
“She’s calling for help! From ships out there somewhere in waiting!”
“That’s how I read them,” Dacres exclaimed. Instantly he shouted up to the crow’s nest, “Do you see those signals?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Can you read them?”
“Aye, sir. They’re calling for help.”
“Have you seen anything of more ships?”
“No, sir. None. Been watching steady.”
Dacres turned back to the helmsman. “Do not close with them until I give the direct order.”
“Aye, sir.”
The two ships moved slowly on north, side by side, less than one mile apart, in a wind that was nearly gone. Forty minutes later, aboard the Constitution, Hull gave orders and the message lantern shut down. At midnight the crews on both ships changed, and the silent vigil continued with Hull and his first mate and navigator remaining on the quarterdeck of the American frigate.
At three o’clock, Captain Dacres on the Guerriere spoke to his helmsman.
“Take a heading that will close the gap. Slowly. I do not want to be within gun range before good light.”
“Aye, sir.”
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between the two scarcely moving ships lessened, with each crew watching the other in tense silence. Then, at half past three o’clock, in the blackness, the strained shout came down from the crow’s nest on the Guerriere.
“Lights! Astern! Four ships approaching!”
Dacres and Laughlin had not left the quarterdeck since sunset. Instantly they raised their telescopes and in twenty seconds counted the running lights of four ships, spaced out behind them in a line. Battle formation!
Before Dacres could give the order, Laughlin broke for the main deck and down into the seamen’s quarters. Two minutes later he shoved a barefooted man still in his underwear and struggling to come awake, up onto the quarterdeck. Laughlin lighted a signal lantern, shoved it into the hands of the seaman, and turned to Dacres, waiting.
