by Drew McGunn
Boylan stood to his feet and leaned over the table and in a conspiratorial whisper shared his plan.
***
The rhythmic sound of water lapping against the longboat’s hull did nothing to sooth Lieutenant Porter’s nerves as the crowded boat sliced through the waters of the Bay of Campeche. Twenty men, a mixture of sailors and Marines were crowded onto its benches. Three more longboats kept pace and in formation with Porter’s boat, as they rowed through the heavily overcast night’s inky darkness.
The crew had been rowing for a couple of hours, following a compass reading, which according to Yucatecan sources would take them to where the Mexican fleet rode at anchor outside the harbor of Campeche. Porter turned from his place near the bow, and watched his men silently pulling on their oars, as though willing the boat to go even faster.
Despite the cloud covered night, when he turned and faced forward, he saw silhouettes materializing in the distance. The tall masts of the Mexican fleet came into view. He prayed his men would make no noise other than the steady oar strokes. If the sailors aboard the Mexican ships became aware of them while they were still more than a mile away, they could turn the heavy guns on them and reduce their boats to kindling. He shuddered as he thought about what would happen to his men should that occur.
Porter motioned to several Marines, who were sitting in the middle of the boat. They had been waiting for that signal. He heard the soft snicking sound of their bayonets being pulled from leather scabbards. Locking the sharp weapon on the barrel’s end, they edged forward in the boat. They were tasked with securing the gunwale on the midships of the Guadalupe.
When Porter realized he’d been holding his breath as the boats neared their target, he exhaled and tried to breath normally. Or at least as normal as his nerves would allow. As the ship’s silhouette became more distinct and he could make out the iron plating, he started looking for the best place for his men to throw their grappling hooks.
The boat glided alongside the ironclad, as the men shipped their oars, raising them up. Two men leapt past Porter, as they threw a set of grappling hooks over the gunwales amidships. The set of hooks were attached to a rope ladder, and as they dug into the wood on the gunwales, a Marine slipped by the lieutenant and scurried up the side of the ship, with his rifle slung over his back.
Pounding on the wooden deck and enraged shouts split the night air. A decidedly British voice called out, “Beat to quarters! We’re attacked!”
Following behind the handful of men who had already climbed the ladder, Porter leapt up and grabbed onto a rung and started climbing. He hadn’t reached the top when the sharp report of a rifle echoed in the night air. If anyone hadn’t been aware they were aboard before the gunshot split the night air, they were now.
As he wrapped his fingers around the wooden gunwale and pulled himself over the side, he heard scuffling and cursing. When his head cleared the side of the ship, Porter saw two of his Marines wrestling several sailors, who were armed with truncheons and knives. A beefy, tattooed sailor slipped between the Marine’s rifles and slammed his club against a Marine’s head, dropping him like a stone.
Alarmed, Porter jerked his revolver from its holster and pointed it at the sailor. “Drop it or you’re a dead man.”
The sailor saw him, and the young lieutenant could tell the other man was weighing his options. After a long moment, in which several more Marines clambered onto the deck, he dropped the weapon and slowly raised his hands.
One man down, Porter thought, and more than a hundred fifty to go. Fights had broken out across the midships, as his marines were joined by men from the other boats, who had swarmed over the side, and added their weight to the battle raging across the ship’s deck.
More sailors were surging up from below decks, even as the boarding parties from the four longboats washed over the port side gunwales. Porter grabbed Marines by their collars, and shouted above the din of melee combat, “Form a Goddamned line!”
Amid the din on the deck, a thin line of Marines formed, stretching across it until reaching the starboard side. Porter stood behind the riflemen, “Aim at the hatchway!”
“Fire!”
A score of bullets riddled the sailors who had rushed up the ladder from the berth deck, momentarily stopping the surge onto the main deck. As the sailors still fighting amidships were subdued, more men joined the battle line of Marines.
The hatches to the berth deck were slammed shut and bolted closed. The score of Texian sailors, who had arrived with his Marines, scurried up the ratlines, and loosed the sails, and unfurled them as several marines attacked the thick ropes wrapped around the capstan. The ship was pulling against its anchor when the rope snapped, and the ship lurched forward.
Porter ran over to the gunwale and looked behind the ship, as the Guadalupe picked up speed when her sails filled. Despite the heavy cloud cover overhead, he saw lights illuminating the other ships in the Mexican squadron, as they came to life, reacting to the Texian navy’s cutting out the iron hulled ship.
Marines forced the captured sailors on the main deck below at gunpoint. A young midshipman was in command of the Texian sailors, and because they only controlled the above deck section, no effort was made to build up a head of steam, as that would have required forcing their way to the engine room. Porter had little regard for the mixed crew of British and Mexican sailors, but until they surrendered, he disliked further risking his men’s lives by forcing their way below decks to the engine room. As it was, two Marines had been killed when they had boarded, and several more were seriously injured.
Porter looked aft and saw the Mexican flag flying from the yardarm. He strode by the pilot house and drew his sword, cutting the line. The rope slid through the pulley, depositing the flag on the deck. He pulled the Texas ensign from a leather pouch he wore and beckoned a couple of Marines over. They took the flag and with help from a sailor aloft, rigged a new line and raised the Texas flag over the captured ship.
Behind the Guadalupe, Porter thought he could see a black smudge in the night sky, billowing out of the Montezuma’s smoke stack, as the other ship’s boilers began building up pressure to power the side-paddlewheels in their iron casements. Other sails unfurled behind the enemy ironclad as the rest of the Mexican squadron followed in pursuit.
At best, the Texians had gained a mile before the Montezuma started gaining on her. Porter stood next to the pilot house, aft of the ship and watched the sun rise behind the other ironclad. The distance continued closing, and as though the thought of being fired upon would trigger the action, a puff of smoke appeared in the Montezuma’s bow, following a moment later by the report echoing across Campeche Bay. A few seconds later, the shell splashed into the water less than a hundred yards astern. When a Paixhans gun fires a shell, a fuse is lit. A wooden sabot protects the shell and keeps it from exploding prematurely. After the shell splashed behind the ship, a moment later, a geyser erupted where it exploded.
Five minutes later, the gun fired again, and this time, the shell fell short less than a hundred feet from the Guadalupe. When it exploded, water cascaded onto the ship’s stern. Porter turned to yell at the sailor in the pilot house but was interrupted by a cheer from the Marines on the deck of the Guadalupe. Steaming from the west were the Fannin, Nueces, and Austin.
A deep rumble reverberated across the water as the twelve-inch bow chaser on the Fannin fired. The two hundred twenty-five-pound shell landed between the Guadalupe and Montezuma, throwing up a mountain of water when it detonated.
The enemy ship veered to starboard and presented its broadside to the fleeing ship. The three guns on the starboard battery disappeared behind a cloud of smoke, as their 42-pound shells screamed downrange toward the Guadalupe. One fell short, another long, but the third slammed into the side of the ship. The iron plating held, even when the shell exploded, and sent a sheet of flame up and over the gunwale above where the shot struck home.
Before the Montezuma could fire another broadside,
the heavy bow chaser aboard the Fannin fired again. A fountain of water hid the enemy ship from view when the shell fell short.
The distance between the captured ironclad and her sister ship grew, as the Montezuma took evasive action against the Fannin. But the Fannin was under full steam and carried every stitch of canvas she could safely carry. She flew across the water, passing the Guadalupe, and fired again on the Montezuma, which was attempting to turn back toward Campeche.
The Paixhans guns were designed to make wooden sailing ships obsolete. The counter-technology to the Paixhans was an ironclad ship, like the Montezuma. When the British had built the ships for the Mexican navy, the means of propulsion were twin paddlewheels on the side of the ship. It was an obvious weakness. The solution was more iron plating. Against a 42- or even a 68-pound shell, the ships’ builders had properly shielded the vulnerable paddlewheel. When the lucky shot from the twelve-inch gun slammed into the iron casement and exploded, the rivets holding the iron plating sheared off, and the iron plating was shredded. The wooden paddlewheel was turned to kindling, sending a wave of splinters across the deck. Dozens of sailors went down, in bloody heaps, as the ship slowed, without the steam-powered propulsion.
From his place along the Guadalupe’s gunwale, Porter watched the mighty Fannin slice through the water, nearing the crippled Montezuma. Before its large bow chaser could fire again, the Mexican flag dipped, and the second ironclad surrendered.
With both ironclads in tow, the other ships of the Mexican squadron fled, carrying every piece of canvas they could handle. The small, wooden-hulled steamer, the Regenerator surrendered without firing a shot. While the sun was still high in the midday sky, the three ships of the Texas navy sailed into Campeche harbor, with the three captured ships of the Mexican fleet.
***
October 1842
Charles Elliott, appointed chargé d'affaires to the Republic of Texas a few months before, was uncomfortable in the hard-backed chair. As a career diplomat he had represented the Empire’s trade interests in China before the Opium War had tarnished his reputation, at least that’s what the rumors had said. He was disinclined to doubt them, having been exiled to this mosquito-bitten, pretentious republic. Tired of ignoring the pain in his back, he stood and walked over to the glass-paned window.
This house, owned by a wealthy merchant, had been given over to today’s meeting with Secretary of State, John Wharton. No doubt Wharton had chosen this location and this room to deliver a point. The docks of the Port of Galveston were clearly visible from the room, and tall masts crowded the wharves as trade flowed in and out of the republic’s principal port. At the moment, the ships alongside the docks failed to interest him. What caught his attention were the two ironclads anchored in the Galveston channel. Next to them was the steam frigate Fannin.
He bit his lip until he tasted blood. Since arriving during the summer, things had gone better than he had anticipated, until the battle of Campeche. He was dismayed that two of the most powerful warships in the world had fallen to the third-rate Texas navy, and had done so while under the command of British officers, even if they were on loan to the Mexicans.
That should have been the worst of it, he thought as he shook his head in dismay. Word had reached him only a few weeks ago that the British bankers who had underwritten the loan to the Mexican government for the purchase of the ironclads had petitioned to the crown for redress. The Earl of Aberdeen, Minister of Foreign Affairs had written to him that the Crown’s position on the matter of the captured ships is that the loans for the ships were in default and to press the Republic of Texas for their return. Elliott grimaced, recalling that the Foreign Minister’s note said nothing of the two hundred British sailors rotting as prisoners of war on this very island.
The door swung open and John Wharton strode through, followed by General William Travis. With a perfunctory nod, Wharton took one of the chairs at the table and waited for Elliott to return to his seat. General Travis took the chair between the two diplomats.
“Mr. Elliott, thank you for meeting us on short notice. My apologies for the delay, but my meeting with your counterpart from the United States ran late.”
Elliott masked his surprise at the news. What could that upstart Fletcher Webster want with Wharton?
He cleared his throat and decided these Texians would prefer to dispense with the normal diplomatic pleasantries. “The Crown requires the return of her property, Secretary Wharton. When can she expect to take possession of the two ironclads?”
Wharton appeared nonplused, as though something had hit him between the eyes. He coughed until General Travis retrieved a pitcher of water from a small table against the wall and poured him a drink. When he finally recovered, he said, “I am not aware of any British ships. Now, if you’re talking about those two Mexican ironclads, I’m not sure there’s anything Texas can do. They were captured after a state of war was declared between our country and our southern neighbor. They were flying the Mexican flag and were provisioned by the Centralist government in Mexico City. As to their provenance, if indeed they were funded by London bankers, well, sometimes you’ve got to write off a bad investment.”
While it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, Elliott hadn’t expected any other answer. Having satisfied his imperial duty for the moment, he moved on to his own item. “Setting that aside, then, that brings me to the next issue at hand. You are in possession of more than two hundred of Her Majesty’s subjects. As Her representative to them, I require access to determine if they are being properly cared for.”
Wharton glanced at Travis before responding, “I’m not familiar with any British subjects in Texas prisons. If anyone from the British Empire has lawfully entered our country and has been charged with a crime, we will certainly give you access, as is customary.”
Elliott resisted the urge to shout. He tamped down his ire. Diplomacy, like chess, was a game of skill. He changed tack “Come now, John, let us not maintain any fiction here. You and I both know that when Britain sold those ironclads to the Mexican government they required competent seamanship. British sailors were contracted by the Mexican government.”
Wharton smirked upon hearing Elliott’s admission. “Frank talk is a rare commodity, Charles, especially in the circles in which we travel. But let me speak plain, Her Majesty’s government has caused us offense by selling and crewing the ships of the Mexican navy. Neither I, nor the president, is blind to the reality that the British Empire gets to operate by a unique set of rules.”
Elliott liked hearing others acknowledge that the British Empire was first among equals. “Then, I’m sure you’re interested in remaining in Her Majesty’s good graces. Let me arrange for the transportation of our sailors back home.”
Wharton was about to respond when General Travis placed his hand on the other’s arm. Travis smiled at Elliott. It reminded the Englishman of a wolf about to take a bite out of a weaker animal. “Good graces. What an interesting expression, Mr. Elliott, it covers a multitude of sins.”
Elliott eyed the young general, skeptically, as he continued, “Was it Her Majesty’s good graces that caused your government to be the last significant European power to recognize our independence?”
Without waiting for a response, General Travis continued, “Mr. Elliott, were we to release men who had served our mortal enemy, it would make us unpopular with the citizenry of Texas. Now, if you’re prepared to ask us to make a politically unpopular gesture, I’m sure you can appreciate we need something significant in return.”
The chargé d'affaires had expected something else, a retrenchment in the Texian position, based upon Travis’ reputation. But he implied an accommodation could be worked out. “What do you have in mind, General?”
Travis turned and looked out the window at the ships loading and unloading their cargo along the wharves below. “In the balance of power in the western hemisphere, Her Majesty’s government has, at every opportunity, tipped the scales in Mexico’s favor. Are you
aware that even the Czar of Russian beat your government by five years in recognizing our independence? May I suggest that the British empire would do better to show that we are in her good graces by extending to the Republic of Texas most favored nation status? This would, I believe, result in lower tariffs for British goods coming into Texas as well as expanding British textile markets by offering more Texas’ cotton exports to Britain.”
Elliott nodded thoughtfully at Travis’ words. “I’m not authorized to make such significant trade policy actions, but I’ll be glad to present your proposal to the Foreign Ministry. In the meantime, as a sign of good faith, I would like to visit your prisoners from the Battle of Campeche.”
Travis slid his eyes back to Wharton, who responded. “Of course, Charles. I’ll provide you a pass before we leave today. On an unrelated note, I do have a proposal for you, regarding the disposition of a couple of ships we captured from the Mexican navy.”
Elliott leaned forward. Wharton’s machinations intrigued him. Denying any action regarding the British bankers and now, he wanted to talk about them as though they belonged to Mexico. This would be interesting. Elliott indicated he was listening.
“The ‘Crockett Doctrine’ remains Texas’ official position regarding unsubstantiated rumors that the new administration is seeking terms of annexation from the United States. Despite many in the American South and not a few in East Texas who are clamoring for annexation, we are committed to our independence. Rest assured the Clay administration approves of our position. It serves the interest of all three of our nations to quiet such voices of annexation. The best way to accomplish this is for Texas to step out onto the world’s stage and make a clear commitment to peace in the western hemisphere.”
Elliott chuckled, “Those are odd words coming from a nation who not half a year past declared war on your southern neighbor.”
