Give Me a Fast Ship

by Tim McGrath

  His urgent message went a long way in getting Barry’s supply of small arms up the gangplank and stowed aboard while Philadelphia slept one evening—up until then, the only small arm aboard was a pistol Barry himself had bought. He hoped for at least a hundred hands from the rendezvous held by his lieutenant, a free spirit named Luke Matthewman, but got only seventy-five—plus a slave Barry purchased for the cruise. With a Grand Union ensign flying above her quarterdeck (purchased by the captain for seven pounds), the Lexington stood down the Delaware, silently gliding past sleeping Philadelphia on March 28.74

  Fisher’s message compelled the Pennsylvania Committee of Safety to order four row galleys to accompany the Lexington downriver under Barry’s command and “Take and destroy all such Vessels of the Enemy.” Twenty miles below Philadelphia, Barry was hailed by Fisher at Reedy Island, a spit of land on the Delaware side of the river near the fishing village of Port Penn: the British ship was not a sloop but Hamond’s forty-four-gun frigate, the Roebuck. Leaving the row galleys at Reedy Island, Barry went on alone, exercising his men at the guns in the same fashion as Biddle and Jones had done.

  While Hamond awaited an answer to his request for a land force to accompany his passage up the Delaware, his ships stood off Cape May. On March 28 he came down with “an inflammation in my Bowels” so severe that he turned command over to one Lieutenant Leak, who unsuccessfully pursued the leaky Hornet as she approached the bay.

  Three days later, a recovering Hamond spied the Lexington for the first—but not the last—time, off Cape May. Lowering his spyglass, he ordered his helmsman to change course and pursue at the same time. The sun was just coming up when Barry viewed the Roebuck for the first—but not the last—time. For sixteen years, the thirty-one-year-old Irishman had plied his trade with the Delaware River as his route to and from the Atlantic; he knew her twists and turns, her depths and shallows, as well as the savviest pilot. Seeing the Roebuck plowing the waves, heading straight at him, Barry changed course and headed for the Overfalls, the treacherous shoals that encircle Cape May. The Lexington’s shallow draft allowed Barry to enter the shoals, while the Roebuck’s deeper draft made her pursuit more perilous the faster she neared the Overfalls, whose depths can change from thirty feet to three feet in a matter of a few yards.

  Hamond, with more than twenty years of service in the navy, was smart enough to order his leadman to swing his line—a rope long enough to reach a depth of twenty-five fathoms with a ten-pound lead weight, hollowed out at its end and tallowed, allowing it to bring back a sample of the bottom. Slowly and methodically, the sailor made circular revolutions with the line, each revolution accompanied by a deep whoosh, audible to the crew. Then he released it into the water. Soon he struck ground shallow enough to imperil the frigate, forcing Hamond to break off the chase and, even more vexing for Hamond, with Barry’s brigantine out of the range of the Roebuck’s bow chasers. The Lexington sped past Cape May, heading north.75

  Fisher’s reports convinced Congress that, as William Whipple wrote to Josiah Bartlett, “The Coast is much infested with pirates”—that is, British warships. But Barry found no evidence of them after two days of sailing north along the Jersey coast; he only found signs that they had been there (including a British raiding party that had terrorized an Absecon family, taking “even the clothes off the children’s backs”). After overtaking a sloop of dubious origins and sending her to Philadelphia, Barry changed course. Congress wanted Lord Dunmore’s depredations addressed, and Barry was determined to oblige as best he and his little ship could.76

  Hamond, too, was after bigger game, convinced that the “Philadelphia Squadron,” as he called Hopkins’s fleet, was close by. Therefore he “took care to place my Ship in the best manner I could to intercept them,” unaware that the Americans were already past the Delaware Bay.77

  Just after midnight on Saturday, April 6, the Andrew Doria’s lookout “Saw two Sail, to the ESE.” Roused from his slumber, Biddle ordered a light placed on the ensign staff and lit two “false Fires”—the night signal for sighting a strange sail. The Andrew Doria gave chase. One hour later, the Cabot was alongside her with the Alfred right behind. They were after the HMS Glasgow, twenty guns, and her tender, the Nautilus. Biddle cried, “Beat to Quarters!” Immediately the drummer pounded out the frantic rhythm as the crew hastened smartly to their battle stations. Seconds later, the drummer’s endless rat-a-tat was echoed across the water by his counterparts aboard the other Continental ships.

  The Glasgow was commanded by Tyringham Howe. Originally part of Wallace’s squadron, Howe was heading south to Virginia with dispatches for Dunmore from Admiral Shuldham. Now he changed course—not to run, but to fight. With the wind blowing south, Howe headed NNW to come across the Cabot. By then the Americans had been joined by the Columbus and the Providence. All of Hopkins’s original ships were ready to engage, five against one. From his quarterdeck, the commodore could taste another victory.78

  In February Hopkins had believed that his ships, captains, sailors—perhaps even he himself—were not ready to do battle at sea. He would soon learn if he was right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I FEAR NOTHING”

  I have the pleasure to acquaint you that all our people behaved with much courage.

  —CAPTAIN JOHN BARRY TO THE CONTINENTAL MARINE COMMITTEE1

  The Glasgow came through the north wind, making for the Cabot on a port tack. From the Andrew Doria’s quarterdeck, Nicholas Biddle kept a weather eye on the coming confrontation while glancing towards the Alfred, expecting Hopkins’s signal to “Fire a gun and light as many false fires as there is Ships in the fleet.” But no gun was fired, and no fires were set.2

  Thanks to his years in the Royal Navy, Biddle realized that if the Glasgow was part of Wallace’s squadron, the rest of the British ships were not far off. He wondered if Hopkins would follow the Royal Navy practice of forming his ships into a line of battle; one ship behind another, one broadside after another. Other American captains may not have been looking for this, but Biddle was.

  Again, no signal from Hopkins. Disgusted, Biddle watched as the American ships “all went Helter Skelter, one flying here and another there to cut of[f] the retreat of a fellow who did not fear us.”3

  Indeed, “the fellow” in question, Tyringham Howe, showed no fear of superior numbers and firepower. He made for the Americans with an assurance that must have seemed foolhardy. There was such stillness aboard the ships that Biddle could hear Howe’s voice as the Englishman hailed John Hopkins with his speaking trumpet: “Who are you? What ships are these?”

  With as much bravado as he could muster, young Hopkins replied, “The Cabot and Alfred, a twenty-gun frigate.”

  Conversation abruptly ceased when a marine from the Cabot’s fighting tops threw a grenade at the Glasgow that exploded on her deck. Howe answered it with a broadside, and the battle was joined.

  Howe’s fearlessness was justified. The Cabot was outgunned; her 6-pounders, manned by overanxious gun crews, were no match for their British counterparts and their 9-pounders. Reloading with a speed incomprehensible to the Americans, they poured round after round into the Cabot, their marksmanship unerring and deadly. Standing on the Alfred’s quarterdeck next to Captain Saltonstall, the commodore watched the battle between his son’s ship and the Glasgow, masking as best he could any anxieties father had for son. But his self-control was tested with each British broadside. Soon the brig was disabled, her rigging in tatters, and four were dead on deck, including Charles Seymour, the sailing master. To Hopkins’s muted horror, the next broadside struck John down, one of seven wounded from the Glasgow’s onslaught.

  The Cabot sheered off, heading west through the wind to let the Alfred pick up the fight. But as the flagship closed in, she came perilously close to ramming the Andrew Doria. Biddle roared orders to his men to tack to port. Hastily manning the braces and preparing to change course, the ship ju
st missed being fouled by the limping Cabot. The Andrew Doria slid past her unharmed, but the maneuver carried her away from the fight. The Alfred faced the Glasgow alone. With her twenty 9-pounders and her ten 6-pounders she was more than a match for Howe’s frigate—on paper.

  One American officer had his men ready. “Stationed between decks to command the Alfred’s first battery” and with cool deliberation, Lieutenant John Paul Jones recited the orders he had hammered into his gun crews. The two ships exchanged broadsides as they sailed past each other. Few, if any, of Jones’s men had seen battle before. Smoke stung their eyes and their ears rang from the din of their cannons, but his gun crews obediently ran out their reloaded guns. What they lacked in accuracy they made up for with steadfast obedience to their lieutenant. Through the gun ports Jones could see the results of his endless drilling: the Glasgow was taking damage. This night, no Americans were better led.4

  Above deck in her fighting tops, the Glasgow’s marines fired volley after volley, first at the sailors on the Alfred’s deck, then taking aim at the American marines aloft. One shot missed marine captain Samuel Nicholas, but struck the officer next to him in the head; Nicholas knew he was dead as soon as he saw him hit. No time to mourn now. Nicholas ordered his marines to return fire.5

  For half an hour, the two ships pounded away at each other. Then an “unlucky shot,” as Jones called it, “carried away our Wheel Block & Ropes”—the helmsman could no longer steer the ship effectively. Suddenly the Alfred “broached to”—veering sharply to windward and putting her at the mercy of both nature and the enemy. Until the crew could jury-rig a repair, the ship was helpless.

  Seeing his foe crippled, Howe tacked through the wind and came across the Alfred’s bow—“crossing the T.” At that moment, the Glasgow was invincible, and the Alfred indefensible. Howe’s gunners made the best of these precious seconds. British cannonballs slammed into the Alfred’s mainmast, shredded her rigging, breached her hull below the waterline, and killed four, one a young British midshipman confined to the cockpit. They were outnumbered and outgunned, but Howe’s crew were seasoned warriors, and they fought that way. What was the King’s Navy made of? This.6

  Hopkins and Saltonstall had the Alfred’s steering working again when Biddle arrived, bringing the Andrew Doria up behind the Glasgow as the frigate sailed past the Alfred, heading northeast. Soon Hopkins was coming up on the Glasgow’s port side, just as the missing Whipple brought the Columbus up on her starboard quarter. “The whole fleet,” it seemed to Howe, was “within Musket shot, on pourt quarters and Stern.” Throughout the battle, Whipple had tried to get the Columbus into the fight, while John Hazard kept the speedy Providence out of harm’s way. Two hours had passed before three American ships were in a position to fight in unison.

  For the moment, the outcome looked to be in Hopkins’s hands. American guns raked the Glasgow and kept up a continual fire. Seeing the momentum of the battle swinging against him, Howe sent his clerk to the captain’s cabin, where he took Howe’s dispatches and signal book, placed them in a bag weighted down with round shot and heaved it overboard so as not to be seized.

  But luck, like everything else that night, was with Howe. The wind unexpectedly changed from the north to the northwest, and the Glasgow “bore away” like a weary stag pursued by exhausted hounds. Howe made for Newport. American bow chasers kept blasting at the fleeing Glasgow; Howe ordered his stern chasers run out through his cabin windows to return fire. From the east, daylight began stretching across the horizon, filling the ocean with sunlight.

  With dawn came a harsh realization for Hopkins: Howe was not fleeing—he was leading the Americans straight to James Wallace’s squadron and his crack gunners. Caught up in the chase as he was, Hopkins needed only look at his battered flagship to envision the consequences of further pursuit. At six thirty, gazing back from his taffrail, Tyringham Howe watched as the Americans changed course and broke off the chase. Three hours later, the Glasgow was safely in Newport. Howe’s casualties: one dead and three wounded, all coming from the musket fire of Nicholas’s marines, but American broadsides did their share of damage. Howe’s lower masts were pockmarked from cannonballs, and most of his standing and running rigging was shot away.7

  Hopkins’s decision not to encounter Wallace was the soundest he ever made as commander-in-chief of the Continental Navy. It would have been slaughter to send his sluggish, damaged ships against seasoned captains and sailors. Instead, the Americans inched their way northward through a front of fog and rain, arriving off New London, Connecticut, on April 7.8

  That same front of fog surrounded HMS Roebuck off Cape Henlopen, where Captain Andrew Snape Hamond anxiously awaited Hopkins’s fleet. The Roebuck did not ride idly at anchor. Hamond continued terrorizing Philadelphia shipping, capturing half a dozen small vessels whose cargoes were so inconsequential he burned them. They were all he would get for now; Hopkins’s fleet had passed him days earlier.9

  Two hundred miles south, the ship that had eluded Hamond the week before was cruising under clearer skies. John Barry’s Lexington had reached the Virginia Capes, where, in accordance with his orders, he began searching for the ships of Lord Dunmore’s navy. The brigantine’s gun ports were closed when the lookout spotted a sail to the southwest. Peering through his spyglass Barry saw a sloop of war, a fair fight by size and a chance to test his men—and himself—in combat.

  As the sloop sailed closer, the hands from the Lexington’s days as the Wild Duck recognized her as the Edward, the same ship that had chased them a month ago. Barry ordered his men to their battle stations. With his 4-pounders loaded, but not run out, he sent the Lexington fleeing eastward, hoping the Edward would follow. She did.

  Stripped to their waists to lessen the chance of being burned in the coming fight, the gun crews bent over their weapons. Only Barry’s calm exhortations were heard over the sounds of wind breathing into canvas and waves making way for the brigantine’s hull.

  Aboard the Edward, Lieutenant Richard Boger already had his 3-pounders loaded and run out. Now he fired a warning shot at his prey. The cannon’s echo had died when Boger’s sloop came alongside the brigantine. Speaking trumpet in hand, Boger cried, “Heave to!”—ordering the brigantine brought into the wind, and her captain to identify himself.

  Barry obliged in part: “Continental brig Lexington,” he replied through his speaking trumpet. Then, turning to his men, he ordered the Grand Union run up and his guns run out. “Fire!” he roared, and the port battery’s 4-pounders spewed fire and iron at the enemy. The damage to the Edward was negligible, but the very act of being fired on forced a change in Boger’s strategy. He reversed course, hoping to lead the Lexington on a chase back towards the Chesapeake Bay and Dunmore’s ships, but in coming through the wind, the Edward was exposed to another broadside.

  It was now both race and battle as the ships bore WSW. As the Lexington came alongside the Edward, Boger’s little 3-pounders fired on the uproll. His gunners’ experience and accuracy were telling. Their cannonballs killed two Americans and wounded another.

  But not even the sight of their three stricken comrades deterred the Lexington’s crew from their duties. Everyone aboard, including Barry’s slave, kept to their assigned tasks. American gunners began hitting their target, shattering the Edward’s bulwarks “in a terrible manner.” Before long the damages to the sloop’s rigging and sails slowed her to a crawl. At one point, the Lexington’s speed looked to carry her past the Edward when Barry suddenly tacked behind her stern and “crossed the T.” The last broadside of the battle killed one British tar and left a gaping hole below Boger’s cabin, and water started pouring into the Edward. Lacking enough hands to sail the ship, plug the open wound in her stern, and continue the fight, Boger lowered his colors. Barry placed a prize crew aboard her and sent her back to Philadelphia.10

  The town of New London greeted Hopkins’s fleet like conquering heroes, with good reason: h
ad they not safely sailed along the American coastline, captured two British forts, and returned with their holds full of munitions, stores, and valuable ordnance? As litters bore more than two hundred wounded or sick sailors off their battle-scarred and barnacle-infested ships, the moved townsfolk opened both their hearts and their homes. All of New London became a hospital.

  Once the wounded were settled, Hopkins issued a flurry of dispatches to Congress, to his cronies in Rhode Island, and to General Washington. They were mostly detailed reports that maximized his successes while minimizing the setbacks due to his leadership, such as not following his original orders or telling the whole truth about the Glasgow battle. He praised his fleet’s officers, especially those under his wounded son’s command. But, as before, he disregarded his new orders from Congress. Instead, he offered the captured cannons from the Bahaman forts to the governors of Connecticut and Rhode Island for their protection.11

  Initially, the hyperbole surrounding the fleet’s success spread from ship to dock to tavern, from New London to New England. It was not superior British seamanship and fighting skills that kept the Glasgow from Hopkins’s clutches, the Newport Mercury reported, but the “precious cargo” in the fleet’s holds that “were the sole cause of Mrs. Glasgow making her escape.” Other newspapers followed suit. Hopkins was the hero of the hour. Congressmen showered praise on him, and Washington loaned him two hundred troops from Boston to replace his sick and injured sailors. A poem written in his honor happily concluded that Neptune had turned over his trident and crown to “Gallant Hopkins.”12

  The officers soon found their heroics were not admired by just the men of Connecticut. The ladies sought their company as well, especially young, unmarried ones. Nicholas Biddle so enjoyed his dalliances with two Connecticut girls that he confided to his sister about his dilemma as to “which I love most,” and summed New London up for all the officers: “There never was a more free sociable set of dear Creatures got together in any one place as in this.”13