by Ron Carter
For a moment there was complete silence, and then Armistead said, “Yes, sir. It will be there, and they’ll see it.”
Amid exclamations, the officers rose from the table with papers in hand, and Smith followed them down the stairs, out into the sunlight of downtown Baltimore where citizens and uniformed troops mingled, crowded together in the streets, as they sweated and worked on the trenches and breastworks and barricades to complete all defenses for their city.
Night had fallen, and the moon was high when an exhausted rider, dressed in well-worn civilian clothing and riding a winded horse, stopped at the home of Sam Smith and hammered on the door. Smith was in his nightshirt and holding a lantern high when he opened it and faced the man.
“Gen’l, sir, I was sent by Rodgers—beg pardon—Commodore Rodgers—to tell you—we seen British ships—little ones—down by the Patuxent, comin’ up the bay. They’re headed here for sure.”
“How many?”
“Hard to tell in the moonlight, but we counted over twenty-two. They’re comin’.”
“You need rest? Feed for the horse?”
“No, sir, we’re just fine. I got to get back down there with Rodgers. I wouldn’t miss this party for nothin’, sir. Uh . . . if it’s all right with you, sir, can I go?”
“You are dismissed.”
Smith remained standing in the doorframe with the lantern high to watch the man swing up onto his horse, spin the animal, and set his spurs. Sparks flew from the iron shoes hitting the granite cobblestones as the horse broke into a weary gallop. Smith watched him out of sight before he closed the door.
The sun rose, a hazy, round, yellow ball in an overcast sky, with criers in the streets shouting the warning—“British ships in the bay! Be prepared!” By midmorning the streets were filled with uniformed soldiers and people leaving their homes and shops to hurry to the trenches or to the cannon batteries, to wait for the messengers that came on the hour with reports of the slow, steady advance of the British fleet. The day wore on with tension mounting. Twilight found people leaving their battle positions while others arrived. Dusk, and then full darkness came, with the rotation of citizens and soldiers ongoing, and the network of observation posts on both banks of the Chesapeake studying everything that moved on the bay, while mounted messengers rode through the night to relay the information to Smith in Baltimore.
The sun was an hour high when two men in an observation tower at Herring Point on bank of the Chesapeake at the mouth of the Patapsco River jerked to a full stop, holding their breath, telescopes extended as they studied vague shapes moving north on the water in the morning fog. Within minutes the fog thinned, and a breeze moved upriver, and suddenly the shapes took form.
“There,” one shouted, arm up and pointing. “There they are! See them? Forty—maybe fifty! Big ones! British troop transports and men-o’-war! They’re coming!”
He spun and bounded down a flight of stairs to a small, wiry young man lounging near a tall, brown gelding, saddled and waiting. He fairly shouted at the startled boy, “They’re here! Fifty of them. British troop transports and gunboats! The invasion has started! Get word to Sam Smith!”
The young man leaped to the saddle and was gone in a clattering of hoof beats. He held his horse to a steady gallop, slowing twice in the twelve-mile run to let the laboring mount blow before he pushed his tired mount through the streets of Baltimore to the house of Sam Smith, to pound on the door.
His voice was high, strained as he pointed south. “They’re comin’! Fifty gunboats and troop ships! Right down at the mouth of the river.”
Within minutes Smith was at the courthouse, panting from his run, where he stopped short of the twelve men assigned to the three warning cannon.
“Fire those guns!” he shouted. “The British are coming up the Patapsco. The attack has begun.”
“Sir,” came the reply, “it’s Sunday! September 11! It doesn’t seem right to—”
Smith bellowed, “The Almighty will understand! Fire those guns!”
Within seconds the three cannon roared in succession, and in the midmorning sun, the defenders of the city came sprinting from their homes and barracks to their duty posts.
Smith quickly ran to the First Methodist Church on Light Street and burst into a Sabbath morning worship service in full session. Every head in the congregation turned to stare at him, and the Reverend John Gruber leaned forward over his raised pulpit, startled, indignant at the unusual interruption.
Smith did not wait for an invitation. He called down the long aisle, “Reverend, the British are in the Patapsco! The attack is started. We need you and these people.”
Audible gasps filled the air, and the Reverend Gruber instantly straightened and raised both hands and waited until the church was silent. Then his voice rang from the walls.
“The Lord Bless King George, convert him, and take him to heaven, as we want no more of him! Amen!”
The chapel was filled with amens as the congregation stood and followed Smith out the door into the churchyard where they scattered to return to their homes to retrieve their weapons and change from their Sunday finery into uniforms or clothing suited to their duty stations. Smith worked his way through the people and carriages and wagons jamming the streets to his home, where he quickly changed into the tunic of a major general and buckled his sword onto his left side. Minutes later he was in the saddle of his dappled gray mare, impatiently working his way through the streets to the edge of the city and on to his command post on the high point of Hampstead Hill, where he had a clear view of the harbor and the streets of the city. He was standing on a fortified observation tower with his telescope extended and pressed to his eye, searching the river and Baltimore Bay for British ships, when his aides arrived, followed by a squad of uniformed messengers who tied their horses at the rear of the command post, ready to deliver his orders to any commander or any unit on the Patapsco or in the city.
Smith turned to study the movement of his uniformed militia in the city and watched as they gathered at their assigned rendezvous points to get their ration of one day’s food and thirty-six rounds of ammunition for their muskets and rifles. Satisfied they were following the standing orders, he turned back to slowly sweep the bay with his telescope, and in the far distance were the top sails of the British ships moving steadily up the river.
He turned to his nearest aide, and there was a disciplined excitement in his face and his voice. “They intend attacking North Point, just as we expected. Write down the following.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide produced paper and a lead pencil and wrote rapidly as Smith dictated.
To General John Stricker. Assemble your city Third Brigade immediately and march them east, to take up positions on Long Log Lane just below Trappe Road. Bread-and-Cheese Creek is to the north, and Bear Creek is to the south. Nearby is a zigzag fence that divides a wooded area from large open fields. Set up your lines in the woods, behind the fence. To get past your line, anyone coming from the east will have to cross those open fields, under your guns. Engage and stop them if possible, or, hinder them and fall back if such be necessary.
Your obed’nt servant,
Gen. S. Smith.
The aide handed the brief document to Smith for his signature, then folded it and ran for the stairs, down to the messengers waiting in the shade of the rear wall of the command post with their horses at hand. The aide thrust the folded paper into the hands of the nearest uniformed rider and exclaimed, “General John Stricker! As fast as you can.”
With the message tucked inside his tunic, the man mounted his horse and reined it around to disappear, moving west at a gallop for the run back to the city. From the observation tower of his command post on Hampstead Hill, Smith watched the messenger disappear into the streets. Within one hour he watched the three thousand soldiers of the Third Brigade assemble in rank and file in the streets of Baltimore, with Revolutionary War veteran General John Stricker, fifty-five years of age and a native of Frederick
, Maryland, seated on his black horse at the head of the column. Stricker stood tall in the stirrups to inspect his command, then turned his horse, raised his hand, and shouted the command, and the column followed him through the streets, fifes playing and drums banging, amid the shouts and cheers of the gathered citizens.
Through the heat of the sultry, humid afternoon, Smith watched Stricker’s command move steadily west on their seven-mile march, past Cook’s Tavern, over the bridge at Bread-and-Cheese Creek, to the Methodist meetinghouse just west of Trappe Road. With twilight coming on, Stricker’s entire command was in place in the woods behind the zigzag fence, dug in, tense, waiting, scarcely visible to anyone moving west on Long Log Lane.
In gathering dusk, Smith collapsed his telescope and turned to his aides. “I’m going home for some rest. When your replacements arrive, you do the same. We’re going to have moonlight tonight, enough to see much of the Patapsco and any ships that are moving. Keep a sharp watch. Tell your replacements that if they see anything on the water, they’re to send for me at once.”
He extended his telescope one more time and slowly scanned the river before he descended the stairs to his waiting horse. As he turned his mount toward the darkened town, he glanced to the south, and then the west, as though he could see the river and the roads, with his thoughts and his fears running.
They’ll send Ross—he’ll land at North Point—they’ll march west on Long Log Lane—won’t they?—won’t they?—how many men?—too many?—too many?
Behind him, in the faint moonlight on the river, the British fleet, led by troop transports and the big gunboats, gathered and came to a halt south of North Point. At the bow of the leading troop ship, Major General Robert Ross turned to the captain.
“This as far as you can go?”
“Yes, sir, it is. The river ahead is too shallow for the men-o’-war and the heavy troop ships. We’ll have to land your men here.”
Ross turned back to his aide. “Have they all received their rations and ammunition?”
The aide bobbed his head. “A light pack, three-days’ cooked rations, eighty rounds of ammunition. Yes, sir, they’re ready.”
Ross pointed in the dark. “We’ll put them ashore there, on the west side of North Point. Send light gun brigs and barges with carronades to escort the landing boats in the event of enemy fire. Start at three o’clock am.”
At three o’clock in the morning, under a waning moon, the British regulars went over the side of the troop ships into waiting landing craft, and oarsmen bent their backs to turn the boats toward shore. Dawn found the British light landing craft steadily moving the red-coated troops ashore, with General Ross and Admiral Cochrane waiting, giving directions to each arriving division. The sun had risen when a scout pulled his horse to a stop before Ross.
“Sir, there’s some sort of defenses about four miles west, up Long Log Lane. It looks like the Americans have militia there in a line that could be a mile long.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, sir. They’re in the woods and across the road. Could be a large number.”
“Are they moving?”
“No, sir. Waiting.”
Ross turned to Admiral Cockburn. “I think I’m going to scout ahead. Would you care to come?”
The admiral nodded and ordered an aide to bring his horse. Ross turned to Colonel Arthur Brooke, his next in command.
“I’m going on ahead and taking the Light Brigade with me. I’m leaving you in command. When the artillery is ashore, move the remainder of our forces west toward the city, on Long Log Road. I’ll be waiting somewhere ahead of you.”
The sudden decision caught Brooke by surprise, and for a moment he stared, then spoke.
“Yes, sir. How far ahead?”
Ross shrugged. “That depends on what we find up ahead. You keep coming. I’ll find you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ross wheeled his horse, and with Admiral Cockburn beside him, led the Light Brigade marching west on Long Log Road toward Baltimore.
Brooke watched them for a time while he adjusted to the shock of finding himself responsible to move more than two thousand men with cannon and horses into what could become a head-on, do-or-die battle with stubborn Americans who had been preparing for months. He took a deep breath and quickly strode to the banks of the river to direct the landing of the heavy guns.
The sun was three hours high when the last of the six heavy cannon and two howitzers, with their carriages and horses, were on land, and the heat of the day was building. There were yet over one thousand men on the ships waiting for their turn to board the barges for the trip to shore. Sweating officers and silent men turned to Brooke for orders.
“I’m taking a company to find General Ross. Continue unloading. I’ll either return or send a message back when I know what lies ahead.”
With one company of red-coated regulars following, Brooke started west toward the city, sitting tall in the saddle, studying the road ahead and the thick forest cradling the road, missing nothing that moved.
Behind him, Vice Admiral Alexander Cochrane stood on the bow of his flagship on the river, intently watching the tricky business of unloading four thousand troops, with equipment, food, horses, cannon, muskets, and ammunition, without an accident. Noon was approaching when the landing craft delivered the last of the troops and their guns ashore, and Cochrane ran semaphore flags up his mainmast. The message they delivered to his fleet was clear:
“I am transferring to a schooner. All shallow draft vessels bearing guns will follow my schooner up the Patapsco River. We will be visible to all American observation posts and to the city of Baltimore for purposes of distracting and frightening them. We will then take positions to bombard the city when the ground forces of General Ross make their assault.”
The light, shallow-draft schooner came alongside the flagship, and the two crews rigged the hawsers between them. Experienced hands tied Cochrane into the wooden chair and swung him out over the rail of the huge gunboat, across the fifteen feet of water separating the two vessels, and down to the deck of the schooner. Minutes later the small ship veered to port and started up the Patapsco River with all other shallow-draft vessels bearing cannon falling into formation to follow.
On the shore, Colonel Brooke turned to his aide.
“How far do you judge we’ve come?”
“About four miles, sir.”
“I expected to meet General Ross before now. Have I—”
The aide’s arm shot up to point. “Just ahead, sir. There are some earthworks near that creek and a farmhouse beyond. See them? If I recall the map correctly, sir, that is Back Creek, and a man named Gorsuch owns the farm.”
Brooke called a halt while he extended his telescope and carefully scanned the entire area, then handed the telescope to his aide.
“Can you see any Americans—anything—moving in those earthworks?”
The aide raised the telescope for a time, then handed it back to Brooke. “No, sir. Nothing.”
“Keep a sharp eye.”
Brooke gave the command, and the column moved forward once again, watching the creek bed and the farmhouse. As they reached Back Creek, Brooke called a halt and rode among his troops.
“We’ll take one hour here to let the column close up and rest. Eat something. Find some shade if you can.”
Grateful, weary, sweating soldiers dropped their packs and reached for their canteens while Brooke rode to the head of his column. He was just dismounting his horse when his aide pointed toward the farmhouse in the distance.
“There, sir. I believe that is General Ross.”
Brooke turned to look, surprised to see Ross and Admiral Cockburn sitting on the back steps of the Gorsuch farmhouse, hats in their hands. Beyond them, in the shade of the farm buildings, were the men of the Light Brigade, at rest. Brooke reined his horse around and rode the dusty road to meet the two as they stood.
Ross settled his hat back on his head. “What’s
the condition of your column?”
“Good, sir. I stopped them to rest while those behind close.”
Ross nodded his agreement. “Admiral Cockburn and I have done some scouting. We’re convinced we should move forward to make an early morning attack on Baltimore. I need you to go back to prompt all troops to march here as quickly as possible, with their cannon. We’ll be—”
Ross stopped at the sound of an incoming horse at full gallop, and they watched as a messenger reined his mount to a sliding halt.
“Sir,” the man exclaimed, “a patrol just captured three American cavalrymen from the First Baltimore Hussars. The patrol’s not far behind, bringing them here for interrogation. The lieutenant sent me ahead to tell you.”
Minutes later the three grim-faced Americans were standing before Ross, Cockburn, and Brooke, mouths clamped shut, eyes cast down in defiance.
Ross spoke to the sergeant in charge. “You’re from the First Baltimore Hussars?”
The man nodded once.
“Who’s your commanding officer?”
“Captain James Sterret.”
“Where is your regiment located right now?”
“Baltimore.”
“Which regiments are between this place and Baltimore? Where are they? How many? Who’s in command?”
The sergeant’s eyes were steady, unreadable. “There are twenty thousand troops in Baltimore. Armed and ready.”
“Militia?”
“Mostly.”
Ross tossed a hand up in contempt. “I don’t care if it rains militia! How many trained regulars?”
“I do not know.”
“Who’s in command?”
“General Samuel Smith.”
“Smith’s at Hampstead Hill?”
“Last I heard.”
Ross glanced at Cockburn, then spoke to the lieutenant and his squad. “Take them away. Hold them as prisoners.”
None of the British officers saw the quick glance and the silent communication that passed between the three American prisoners. The British officers believed the road to Baltimore was clear of American forces until it reached Hampstead Hill, and the prisoners were not going to tell them otherwise. Not one of the British officers was aware of American brigadier general John Stricker and his command, dug in and waiting in ambush in the forest ahead.
