Give Me a Fast Ship

by Tim McGrath

  John Adams shared the initial stories of Hopkins’s successes with everyone, while crowing to his wife, Abigail, “I have Vanity enough to take to myself, a share in the Merit of the American Navy . . . my Heart was much engaged in, and I pursued it, for a long Time, against the Wind and the Tide.”

  But the euphoria over Hopkins’s return was short-lived.14 The first crack in the veneer of the commodore’s luster came from his sailors, beginning with the Cabot’s crew. A day after docking in New London, fifty of them signed a round-robin—a document signed in a circular configuration, giving equality to each petitioner and also eliminating the identity of the ringleaders. Stating their devotion to duty and citing “the Usual Custom observed in board Vessels of War,” they requested that Hopkins advance them enough money to “procure them what’s necessary for their Health & preservation.” Simple enough; but lacking both the money and the authority to advance it, Hopkins refused. They were the first sailors of the Continental Navy to go unpaid. They would not be the last.15

  And they were not happy about it. They had exposed themselves to storms, disease, and enemy fire, but now their grumbling joined the growing talk in the taverns and coffehouses that Hopkins’s account of the Glasgow affair was not, perhaps, the unvarnished truth.

  The sailors’ inquietude was shortly corroborated by some officers who at first publicly supported Hopkins’s actions. In one letter, John Paul Jones tactfully assured Congressman Joseph Hewes that Hopkins was “respected thro’ the fleet.” Nicholas Biddle was less circumspect. Writing to his brother Charles, he decried Hopkins’s leadership during the battle as “Shameful,” adding, “A more ill conducted Affair never happened.”16

  Nor was Hopkins the only commanding officer whose conduct became a not-so-secret topic. The lack of action by Captains Hazard and Whipple was also publicly questioned. Whipple, hero of the Gaspee incident that preceded Lexington and Concord by three years, could not bear to walk down the town’s cobblestone streets. “All the People at New London look on me with Contempt,” he told Hopkins, insisting that only a court-martial could clear his name. Writing in the privacy of his cabin, Jones bitterly denounced the “Rude ungentle treatment” dispensed with relish by Dudley Saltonstall upon his junior officers. But rancor for John Hazard’s bullying, embezzlement, and lack of fight commanding the Providence topped them all: “We are used like dogs,” Hazard’s crew bravely wrote to Hopkins.17

  News of Hopkins’s arrival in New London reached Congress on April 11, the same day the battered Edward, flying American colors, came up the Delaware, to the cheers of a large crowd. It was Philadelphia’s first tangible sight of a victory from their armed forces, and a happy Congress congratulated Barry, promising that shares for “the officers and Crew shall be deposited in the hands of your Agents” in no time. Barry’s prize joined another ship, the Molly, as the latest additions to the navy’s roster, with new names: the Edward called the Sachem, the Molly called the Reprisal and turned over to a Marylander, Lambert Wickes.18

  As the Edward underwent repairs at Wharton and Humphreys shipyard, the revisionist reports of Hopkins’s cruise and conduct began trickling into Philadelphia. Upon hearing that the battle with the Glasgow took three glasses to fight (about ninety minutes), Biddle derisively wrote, “They must mean half-Minute Glasses.” Word that Hopkins sent the captured cannons to Rhode Island and Connecticut instead of to Washington or Congress did little to help his growing public relations problem. In New London, Biddle returned from a short cruise convoying merchantmen, bringing back a British prize and news that Wallace’s squadron had departed the waters off Newport.

  Washington wrote Hopkins. He wanted his loaned soldiers back, but Hopkins had other plans. He needed their numbers to get his ships out to sea—not back to Philadelphia and Congress, but back to Rhode Island and home—home for Hopkins, that is. After issuing orders to Biddle to careen the foul Andrew Doria and then escort a convoy of Connecticut merchantmen, Hopkins set sail for Rhode Island, reaching Providence on May 1. Eager to get to sea again, and get the bitter taste of the Glasgow out of his mouth, Biddle put all hands to work at one of the dirtiest and most necessary of tasks, careening the brig.19

  Once the Andrew Doria was emptied of all guns and stores, Biddle sent her to the shallow end of the harbor, placing his strongest hands at the “heaving down post,” weighted down with crushed stone. Three fresh cables crossed the brig’s deck, then ran through the capstan and around the post. Under Biddle’s watchful eye, his men slowly brought the Andrew Doria onto one side. They were too strong; their last heave put her gunwale into the water, and the ship started to go under, forcing his men to ever so slowly release her to the proper pitch to begin work. The crew spent several days atop the hull. With kerchiefs tied across their faces to lessen the foul odor of the hull, they scraped the side, checking for holes from the infamous teredo: the long, wormlike mollusk that feasted on wooden ships, eating right through the planks. Rotting wood was replaced before the final step of the process—applying a fierce-smelling treatment of oil, tallow, and brimstone that coated the hull and keel. Many of the Royal Navy’s ships had copper-sheathed hulls that required careening but extended a ship’s life by years. But copper was expensive, and this noxious brew was the best defense the Americans could afford. Once one side was done, the process was reversed (in this case, Biddle’s men made the same mistake of over-heaving), and the ship returned to her usual appearance. One week later she put out to sea, a faster, better sailer.20

  Hopkins reached Providence on April 26 to learn that Congress had ordered two of the thirteen frigates built there, and that they wanted his captured guns divided up and sent to Philadelphia and Boston. They also wanted the fleet refitted and sent to sea. Before complying, Hopkins also had some careening to do—with his officers.

  The first court-martial was held aboard the Alfred on May 6. That morning, twelve of the fleet’s officers, led by Dudley Saltonstall, sat at the great table in Hopkins’s cabin. Abraham Whipple was called in; after entering, the door was closed and guarded by two armed marines. The officers spent the day in a back-and-forth exchange with Whipple, who argued that “Want of Wind” kept him from sailing into the fight until the very end. His peers decided his lack of action was due to “Errors in Judgment and not for Cowardice,” and he was exonerated.21

  John Hazard was not. Two days later, the same officers reviewed the allegations against Hazard, who declared himself innocent of all charges and that even his embezzling was a “Mear Triffle.” After reviewing his crew’s accusations of being beaten with a rope’s end and “a stick with bullets” on a daily basis, the court questioned everything from his honesty to his courage. Hazard was unanimously found guilty on every charge, and ordered to return his commission. He protested the verdict and wrote Hopkins, requesting and fully expecting to have his command restored.22

  Hopkins refused, having already decided on a new commander. Two days after Hazard’s court-martial, the commodore summoned John Paul Jones to his cabin, offering the Providence to him a second time. The lieutenant who had been wary of the fore-and-aft-rigged sloop back in December was no more; after five months under the overbearing Saltonstall, Jones needed no convincing to command the sloop. His first assignment, taking Washington’s men to his new encampment in New York, provided a perfect opportunity. Jones had been seeking a way to escape Saltonstall. As it turned out, he need only have looked to Providence.23

  In Philadelphia, Congress put Hopkins’s actions and inactions aside, having a bigger issue to deal with. The city faced invasion, from Andrew Snape Hamond.

  For weeks, Hamond had sailed the Roebuck between the Delaware Capes, sometimes solo, sometimes leading other warships. On the surface, his cruising was eminently successful, sending countless prizes up to Sandy Hook or down to Virginia. But he had yet to capture one Continental vessel.

  Hamond frequently chased Continental ships into shallows where his frigate dare
d not go. No one vexed him more than John Barry. Calling him “the Master” of the bay, Hamond vented his frustrations to Lord Dunmore: “I have chased him several times but can never draw him into the Sea.” The Lexington was entering the bay on May 4 after a southern cruise during which Barry dogged a fleet of British merchantmen before leading the frigate Solebay on a fruitless eight-hour chase. As the Lexington rounded Cape Henlopen, Hamond sent the Roebuck in pursuit with her studding sails set to grab every inch of the wind, only to lose Barry again as he took his brigantine into the shallows. Before giving up the chase, a frustrated Hamond discharged a lone gun, its cannonball splashing far short of the Lexington. Barry returned the compliment, the bemused Irishman firing one of his 4-pounders before heading up the bay to a hero’s welcome in Philadelphia.24

  Thanks to his successes, Barry had an easy rendezvous for new hands, with a full complement of 110 names on his muster rolls. The only unhappy man was the slave he had purchased before leaving Philadelphia in March. Barry was no sooner back ashore than he resold the man, whose pay and prize shares were paid to Barry, as his master. The slave, whose name is unknown to history, appealed to the Pennsylvania Committee of Safety. He was not looking to buy new slops or spend the money in taverns and brothels—what he wanted to purchase was his freedom. After fighting against the Edward with the same degree of courage the rest of the crew displayed, would the committee intervene on his behalf?

  They could not and would not. Countless slaves—including those owned by congressmen—saw action at sea aboard Continental ships. All of them, including this man, saw their wages and prize shares go to their masters. Many of them jumped ship upon their return to port. Their captains called their act desertion; their owners called it “running off.” The slaves called it freedom.25

  On May 7, Congress was deliberating on pay scales for naval officers and new parameters for privateers when the booming echoes of Henry Fisher’s cannons were heard, followed by a courier stopping his lathered horse outside the State House and running inside to give John Hancock a message from Fisher himself: the British were coming, by sea. The Roebuck was leading a small squadron of ships upriver, including one tender, the schooner Betsey, and the frigate Liverpool, Captain Henry Bellew, twenty-eight guns.26

  In truth, Hamond had no intention of sailing into Philadelphia: his water barrels were empty. He brought the ships into the Delaware to resupply “and reconnoitre the enemys force of the River.” His only interruption in filling his casks came when the Wasp sailed by, heading for Philadelphia. Miraculously, she evaded capture and continued upriver, dropping anchor near Wilmington.

  News of his approach threw some Philadelphians into a panic, while fellow citizens prepared to defend their city. With the fort on Liberty Island still unfinished, protecting Philadelphia fell to the Pennsylvania Navy’s row galleys. The Lexington was being refitted, so Robert Morris, vice president of the Marine Committee and Barry’s old boss, ordered the brigantine’s crew to board one of the galleys, and Wickes to take the Reprisal downriver with them.

  Rain and wind delayed Hamond’s progress, and he anchored off Wilmington for the night. In Philadelphia, Ben Franklin’s son-in-law Richard Bache was sure that “We are ready to receive them,” but most Philadelphians got little, if any, rest.27

  Wednesday, May 8, broke with light breezes and a haze covering the river. The first act between the antagonists was a peaceful one. Captain Bellew was not only a happily married man but a considerate one. At daybreak he sent William Budden, an American captain whose ship Bellew had recently captured, with a dispatch to Hancock. Bellew’s wife was aboard the Liverpool, and he requested safe conduct for her to visit friends in Marblehead, hopefully escorted by his friend and Congress’s prisoner, Richard Boger.28

  On shore, as Bellew and Hamond waited for Hancock’s reply and the arrival of the American row galleys, Nicholas Biddle’s brother Charles set off in the early morning in a chair—a small horse-drawn carriage—with one Mrs. Gibbs, a widow whose relationship with Biddle he tactfully described as “intimate.” The widow’s carriage led a large crowd of sightseers making their way south along the riverbank to watch the coming fight. The Widow Gibbs believed she was being squired by her lover, but Biddle had other plans. Once the galleys came within sight, he planned to hail one, get onboard, and join the fray. Biddle had not confided in Mrs. Gibbs, as she was rooting for the other side. Besides, it was her carriage. Thanks to Biddle’s switch, the widow’s horses made a fast pace.29

  Lack of wind kept the row galleys from arriving until one in the afternoon. From his quarterdeck, Hamond counted thirteen of them, “each carrying a Gun, from 32 Pounders to Eighteen, a Floating Battery of 10 Eighteen Pounders and a Sloop fitted as a fire ship.” The tide and Hamond’s lack of knowledge of the river compelled him to “Meet them under Sail,” putting the British “under the disadvantage of being obliged to engage them at a distance they chose to fix on . . . scarcely within point blank shot.” Hamond was fighting the battle on his opponent’s terms. Thanks to Barry, this was getting to be a habit.

  By this time thousands of Americans had gathered along the riverbanks. British gunners were usually expert marksmen, but the row galleys were so small they could not hit them at first. Even the two accompanying ships, the Montgomery and the Reprisal, were spared. The Americans aboard the row galleys returned fire, but like their British counterparts, they could not hit the Roebuck. For the first hour, the only damage was to the Widow Gibbs’s chair. Frantically trying to get closer to the fray and carry out his plan, Biddle pushed the carriage so hard that the shaft broke. Both widow and driver fell to the ground. After securing the horses, Biddle made a mad dash for the riverbank near Marcus Hook, but he arrived too late; the battle was under way. The only broadside he faced came when Mrs. Gibbs arrived, her carriage repaired, shall we say, in a jury-rigged style.30

  By the time the Liverpool caught up with the Roebuck (about two o’clock) the wind had died. Using the current, Hamond and Bellew swung their vessels around so that their full array of guns on their port sides could rake the row galleys. The sounds of the battle echoed along the Philadelphia waterfront, where cries of “To arms!” accompanied the furious beating of drummer boys. Shop owners, servants, and other noncombatants joined carpenters, stevedores, and chandlers at the shipyards, manning rowboats, skiffs, and shallops. Armed with muskets or pistols, they rowed and sailed to the sound of the guns: Philadelphia was their home, too.

  Biddle paced back and forth near a grove of trees while watching the battle. Cannonballs roared overhead, crashing into and above the riverbank and sending the sightseers running—all except old, gout-ridden Colonel Turbutt Francis, a retired British army officer and friend of Biddle’s family. Francis remained seated in a small chair. Biddle offered to help him move to safety, but Francis would have none of it.31

  By four p.m. the British gunners were finding their range, forcing the row galleys to withdraw into the shallows on the Jersey side of the river. Aboard the Roebuck, Hamond’s composure barely masked his urge to finish off the row galleys. That required bringing the frigate closer to shore. The captain whose forbearance had kept him from running aground in his earlier pursuits of the rebels now sent the Roebuck towards the enemy. From the quarterdeck of the Liverpool, Bellew watched as the Roebuck’s sails filled and the frigate made headway before coming to a lurching stop. There was a loud, crunching sound as she struck fast on a sandbar. Bellew, seeing he had no choice but to come to Hamond’s rescue, sent his leadman forward to take soundings. Slowly, cautiously, Bellew came to the aid of his superior.32

  Watching from the Wasp, Charles Alexander saw the chance to really make Hamond gnash his teeth. “Man the sweeps,” he ordered, and the schooner made straight for the Betsey. As Hamond watched helplessly from his impotent ship, the Wasp took a new prize.

  The Roebuck might be stuck in the mud, but she still had her teeth, and with the Liverpool soon beside her t
he row galleys dared not close in. From the Montgomery, Captain Read gave orders to keep out of range. With dusk approaching, they would resume the fight in the morning. The spectators departed for home, including the Widow Gibbs. Biddle drove slower this time, lectured all the way by the widow for abandoning her.33

  Hamond waited for the tide to drop before sending his carpenter onto the sandbar to check the damage, which was minimal. While Bellew’s men formed a ring of longboats around the frigates, the Roebucks passed cables and ropes over to the Liverpool, whose crew secured them in the best possible manner to provide both leverage and support. Promising both ample rewards for their efforts while assuring that the merest neglect of duty would be punished, Hamond put the crews to the arduous task of freeing the massive frigate. Around two a.m., the last cry of “Heave!” came from the Liverpool, and one last tug on the lines freed the Roebuck. Both frigates returned to the middle of the river, but none aboard slept that night, as Hamond waited for the attack in the dark from the row galleys, which he would have ordered, had he commanded them.34

  Fog blocked the sunrise the following morning as the two captains aboard the Montgomery sent dispatches to Philadelphia. Read formed a line of battle with the row galleys. “All we want is men,” he scribbled in a report to the Committee of Safety, thought a second, and added, “Ammunition.” Barry’s report to Robert Morris urged that the Lexington be sent down, “for the More thare is the Better.” Read did not have his friend Barry’s recent battle experience, but as he was in charge, Barry deferred to Read’s leadership.