Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  The systematic continuation of the burning of Washington, D.C., and the navy yards with the two ships and the fort at Greenleaf’s Point, with the horrendous blast when the kegs of gunpowder dropped into the well exploded, are accurate. The heroic efforts of clerks in most of the government buildings to save the basic documents necessary to conduct the business of the government, together with the names of those civilians, are accurate. The Declaration of Independence and original draft of the Constitution were in fact saved by Chief Clerk John Graham. Doctor William Thornton did save the patent office by persuading the British there was nothing of military value there and that the building contained inventions that would benefit all mankind.

  On the afternoon of August 25, with the destruction of Washington nearly completed, a furious storm struck the city with winds that actually blew a British officer and his horse off their feet and knocked more than forty British regulars to the ground. Lightning and torrential rain engulfed the city to quell most of the fires. The British concluded that their work was done and marched their troops out of Washington, back toward Bladensburg in Maryland.

  On August 27, Madison rallied what he could find of his government leadership to get reports on the damage done, both to the city and to the national mindset. The message written on the wall of the capitol as recited herein, “George Washington founded this city after a seven years’ war with England—James Madison lost it after a two years’ war” is a verbatim quotation. However, most of the citizenry did not hold Madison accountable; rather, they blamed the bumbling, incompetent secretary of war, John Armstrong. Some did in fact threaten to hang him. Military leaders told Madison outright they refused to follow Armstrong’s orders. Almost immediately, James Madison asked for and received John Armstrong’s resignation and replaced him with James Monroe.

  At the informal August 27 conference, Madison set a cabinet meeting to be held August 29, and the meeting was held.

  James Madison and Dolley Madison never again resided in what we now call the White House; Madison’s term as president ended before the reconstruction was completed.

  See Whitehorne, The Battle for Baltimore 1814, pp. 119–43; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 197–202; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 261–62; Sheads, Fort McHenry, pp. 27–31; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 416–18.

  For a discussion of the impact of the war on the economy and the insurance rates, see Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 214–19.

  The Dunson family and Billy Weems and Jeremiah Skullings are all fictional characters.

  Northern Chesapeake Bay

  September 7, 1814

  CHAPTER XXIV

  * * *

  The Maryland forests that cradled the craggy, rocky shores of northern Chesapeake Bay were just beginning the magic transformation from the rich emerald green of summer to the indescribable colors of fall. Nights were beginning to lose the heat of the day, and mornings were remaining a little cooler a little longer. Birds of the sea wheeled and glided in proliferation with beady eyes, tracking invisible flying things and searching for offerings washed ashore from the dark blue-green waters of the great bay. Onshore the squirrels and chipmunks and bears, and all furred animals of the forest, were answering the ancient laws of nature that required them to store food for the winter, whether in hollow trees or as fat on their bodies, while their pelts daily grew heavier against the approaching winter.

  In the bright sun of midday, with the British Union Jack stirring in the south breeze at the top of her eighty-foot mainmast, the HMS Tonnant rocked gently on the outgoing tide. The huge man-of-war, bristling with eighty cannon on two decks, was the flagship of the great fleet of more than sixty British gunboats and schooners and brigs and gondolas that for three months had been gathering on the Chesapeake from the place where the Patapsco River empties into the bay on the north, to the mouth of the Patuxent River, eighty miles south, under orders of the British admiralty to crush the small scatter of American ships that had appeared to make a useless show of resistance.

  In command of the British fleet was British vice admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, aristocratic, taller than average, built well, high forehead, regular features, cleft in his chin. It was Cochrane, together with Rear Admiral George Cockburn and Major General Sir Robert Ross, who had become the instant and spectacular heroes of the British empire when they combined their sea and land forces to overrun the Americans at Bladensburg, and then ravaged and sacked and burned Washington, D.C., less than three weeks later.

  The pivotal question that now paralyzed the Americans and teased the British was, where would the British forces strike next? Annapolis? Washington, D.C., again? Baltimore?

  Cochrane, Cockburn, and Ross had for days bandied the question back and forth, with their proposals ranging from abandoning the Chesapeake altogether, to relocating at New York, to making sail for the planned assault in the Gulf of Mexico, to crushing Baltimore. The result of it all was their decision to take Baltimore and then get out of the Chesapeake. Their reasons were simple: Baltimore, with its stubborn defiance, had been a thorn in the side of the British for decades. To their thinking, reducing that city of forty thousand to ashes was long overdue. And they all deemed it prudent to be far from the Chesapeake before the malaria season set in.

  On board the Tonnant, inside the captain’s quarters, Cochrane, Ross, and four other officers were gathered around a table, hats hung on pegs and tunics laid on a bunk, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up, chafing at the confinement and the muggy heat as they pored over a large map of the north sector of the bay, reaching north past the city of Baltimore. The windows were thrown open, and the door from the narrow corridor was half open to allow air to circulate in the small room.

  Cochrane tapped the map with a finger and spoke to Ross.

  “We’re going to have to put your infantry ashore, here, at North Point, on the peninsula, fourteen miles south of the city. They’re going to have to march to Baltimore.”

  Ross looked at him in question, and Cochrane went on.

  “At the north end, where you will have to land, both the bay and the Patapsco River are too shallow for heavy ships. We can get some of the schooners and gondolas closer, up the Patapsco to Baltimore, but none of the heavy men-o’-war. You’ll have to make your landing and your march north without support from our heavy guns.”

  He shifted his finger north, up the Patapsco River to a point near the city of Baltimore, and again tapped the map.

  “This is Fort McHenry. Five-sided. Built by a Frenchman named Foncin. Finished about seven years ago. It is very near the water on this small finger of land south of Baltimore and has guns capable of reaching anything within two miles. To get to Baltimore by water, we have to get past this fort. In short, if we mean to move our lighter ships up to Baltimore to give your infantry support from our cannon, we must first destroy Fort McHenry.”

  Ross scratched at his jaw. “How many heavy guns and how many men in the fort?”

  “Forty guns and over one thousand men. Under command of Major George Armistead.”

  “How many gunboats can you put within range of the fort?”

  “Enough to reduce it to kindling in one day.”

  A look of skepticism crossed Ross’s face and was gone. He tapped the map midway between North Point and Fort McHenry, on the east shore of the bay.

  “My scouts tell me the Americans have built earthworks right about here and have around three thousand armed militia there.”

  “That’s true,” Cochrane acknowledged, “but you will have over four thousand regulars with you. You should have no trouble getting past militia. Many of them—maybe most—are without uniforms and have never been under fire. I expect them to scatter at the first sight of your regulars and the sound of cannon and muskets.”

  Ross shifted his finger back to Baltimore.

  “My infantry can march to Baltimore and attack from the east side, or even from the north side. But any success from our attack will depend on support from your ca
nnon bombarding the city from the south and west.”

  Cochrane was emphatic. “We’ll get our gunboats past Fort McHenry. We’ll be there to give you support from the harbor.”

  Ross raised a hand in caution. “How is Baltimore defended right now? How many men? Cannon? Who’s in command?”

  Cochrane answered, “Militia. Ten or twelve thousand. At least twenty cannon. Samuel Smith is in command.”

  Ross’s forehead wrinkled for a moment. “General Sam Smith? The United States senator?”

  “The same.”

  Ross’s eyes narrowed. “A captured American soldier said Sam Smith’s been preparing Baltimore for an attack for the last six months. He has about ten or fifteen thousand men there, and he’s been drilling them morning and night. They’re armed. They can shoot. They’ve been digging entrenchments and building breastworks all summer. And Sam Smith is tough. He’s put some spirit into that city.”

  The sound of booted feet descending the short, narrow stairway down to the half-open door brought all six men around to look as a young ensign rapped.

  “Yes?” Cochrane said.

  The door swung open and the red-haired young man in full naval uniform stood with his hat in his hand, new epaulets gleaming gold on his shoulders. His voice came strong, with a flavor of Irish in it.

  “Sir, there’s a man here requesting audience with yourself. An American. From Georgetown.”

  Every officer in the room stared for a moment before Cochrane spoke.

  “An American from Georgetown? Military?”

  “No, sir. A lawyer. He has a second man with him. He stated he wants to negotiate the release of an American we are holding prisoner.”

  Cochrane looked at Ross in total puzzlement, then spoke to the young ensign.

  “What’s his name? His position?”

  “Key, sir. F. S. Key. The man with him is named Skinner. Mister Key is not military. Says he represents hundreds of Americans from this area, and about sixty of our soldiers.”

  Cochrane’s head thrust forward. “What? He represents British soldiers?”

  “That’s what he said, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the head of the stairs, sir, under armed guard.”

  Cochrane glanced at the other officers for a moment. “Hold him there. We’ll be finished here shortly, and I will talk with him.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ensign turned on his heel and thumped his way back up the stairs. Cochrane turned back to the table and the map and spoke to Ross.

  “You say Smith is a hard opponent and has prepared Baltimore for an attack like the one we’re planning. You’re right. But with your four thousand men attacking from the east side of the city, and my gunboats destroying the west side, it will only be a matter of time before they strike their colors. It is my opinion we can complete the destruction of Baltimore within two days and be well on our way south.”

  Cochrane straightened, waiting for responses.

  Ross drew a deep breath. “The plan appears sound. We may have to make some adjustments as we go, but that’s to be expected.”

  Cochrane turned to the other four officers. “Gentlemen?”

  It was plain in their faces. Their desire to sack the city of Baltimore far outweighed their concerns of getting there or the defenses they could expect from the cocky Americans.

  With very little comment, they endorsed the plan.

  Cochrane concluded. “It is agreed then. We’ll have the infantry boarded on the transports by September 10, and we’ll move them up the bay for a landing at North Point early on September 12. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Very good. General Ross, would you bring that American who wants a prisoner released back to these quarters? The remainder of you are dismissed.”

  The four officers gathered their hats and tunics and made their way out through the low, narrow doorway and climbed the stairs to the main deck, relieved to be out in the sunlight and the stirrings of a breeze. Ross followed and stopped at the head of the stairs, where the young ensign stood waiting with two men in civilian clothing.

  For a long moment, Ross studied the two Americans. The obvious leader was slightly taller than average, with dark hair, regular features, middle-aged, with dark, intense eyes that were focused, showing no emotion. Beside him was an older man, thin, wiry, hair graying, a prominent nose and thin mouth. Both men carried satchels. Four uniformed British seamen stood beside and behind the two men, with muskets raised and bayonets gleaming in the sun.

  Ross spoke to the younger man.

  “You have come to secure the release of a prisoner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow me.”

  He led the two Americans and the four armed guards down to the captain’s quarters, where Cochrane was waiting.

  Ross pointed. “These are the Americans.”

  Cochrane spoke to the four armed guards. “Go back up on deck and wait there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The four men withdrew, and Cochrane waited until they closed the door before he addressed the two men before him.

  “You wish to see me about a prisoner?”

  The younger man nodded. “We do, sir.”

  Suspicion was clear in Cochrane’s face. “Who sent you?”

  “A group of citizens from—”

  Cochrane raised a hand to cut him off. “No. Who in the United States government sent you?”

  The man’s voice remained firm, steady, unruffled. “No one.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Key. Francis Scott Key.” Key turned to his companion. “This is Colonel John Skinner, sir. Colonel Skinner is a regularly appointed American agent for prisoner exchange.”

  Cochrane studied both men for a moment, then spoke to Key. “You are from where?”

  “Georgetown.”

  “Are you with the Department of War? Department of State? What are you in the United States government?”

  “I have nothing to do with the United States government. I am a civilian. I practice law in Georgetown.”

  “A civilian?

  “Yes. I arranged to have Colonel Skinner accompany me to be certain all formalities are abided in our request for a prisoner you are holding.”

  “Who is the prisoner?”

  “His name is William Beanes. Doctor William Beanes. He has served as the community physician in Upper Marlboro for at least the past forty years. Your soldiers took him prisoner for reasons not known. The citizens in Upper Marlboro are fearful he will be hanged. They retained my services to negotiate his release. I requested the assistance of Mister Skinner to be certain such release is full and final.”

  Cochrane turned to Ross. “A Doctor Beanes? Ever heard of him?”

  Ross shook his head but remained silent.

  Cochrane turned back to Key. “Unusual. Citizens retained your services? Are paying you?”

  “Expenses only, sir. I am charging no fee. You have to understand, Doctor Beanes is one of the most beloved figures for a hundred miles in Upper Marlboro. His entire life has been given to the medical care of anyone needing his services. No one knows how many times he gave of his time and his medical skills to anyone who needed them, without mention of being paid. This man is one of the finest.”

  “Why was he taken prisoner?”

  “He was tending wounded American soldiers when British troops took them all captive.”

  “Is he an army doctor?”

  “No, sir. He is not.”

  Cochrane summed it up. “You’re here to obtain the release of an American doctor taken in the act of tending battle wounds of American soldiers. That is enough to hold him for giving aid and comfort to our enemy. Unless there is some compelling reason to the contrary, we will continue to hold him until we have a general exchange of prisoners. That could be months.”

  “There’s more, sir,” Key exclaimed. He turned to Skinner, who handed him his heavy leather satchel. Key gestured to the small table and
Cochrane nodded consent before he realized that the large map on the table and the few scattered papers with rough drawings of North Point and the Patapsco River leading to Baltimore were in plain sight. Quickly he gathered the papers and folded the map to allow Key to set both satchels on the table and open one of them.

  “Sir, here are more than one hundred sixty letters from the leading citizens in Upper Marlboro, declaring the invaluable services Doctor Beanes has given in his life. They make it very plain that he has never borne arms against anyone. His life has been a model of selfless service in all seasons, day or night, to anyone who needed him, rich and poor alike. They plead with you to release him.”

  Key opened the second satchel. “There are more than one hundred twenty letters from British soldiers—enlisted and officers alike—who Doctor Beanes has treated for wounds suffered in battle. Without him, those men would have been dead or crippled for life. Read them, sir. They swear this man has been an agent of mercy. He has been to battle fields while the guns were still firing, to help all wounded. American or British. It made no difference to him. Each of those letters includes a request that Doctor Beanes be released as a prisoner of war and allowed to return to Upper Marlboro. It is not known how many more British soldiers—and American—he will save, if he is allowed to continue with his life. Read them, sir. Read the letters. You cannot read them and remain unmoved.”

  Key stopped, and for a time Cochrane stared at him before he turned to Ross. The two men did not speak, but a silent communication passed between them. Cochrane turned back to Key.

  “You’re telling me that you have letters from one hundred twenty British military who are requesting the release of this man? Doctor Beanes?”

  Key leaned forward, eyes alive, focused. “I am, sir. Read them. Every letter includes the signatures of two witnesses. There are more available if you wish to see them.”