by Steve Vogel
Even Dolley Madison was mystified by the lack of progress. “[O]ur preparations for defence by some means or other, is constantly retarded,” she wrote on July 28, but the thought that her husband might bear some responsibility apparently did not cross her mind.
When an angry crowd gathered outside the President’s House, Dolley was defiant. “[A]mong other exclamations & threats they say if Mr. M attempts to move from this house, in case of an attack, they will stop him & that he shall fall with it—I am not the least alarmed at these things, but entirely disgusted, & determined to stay with him.”
Major General Robert Ross, a blue-eyed, forty-seven-year-old Irishman with a handsome nose and cleft chin, had been personally chosen by the Duke of Wellington to lead the expedition to America’s east coast.
Portrait of Major General Robert Ross that hangs in the home of his descendants in Rostrevor, Northern Ireland.
CHAPTER 3
The British Invasion
CHESAPEAKE BAY, SUNDAY, AUGUST 14, 1814
The British squadron anchored near the mouth of the Potomac River was roused from a heat-induced Sunday lethargy when lookouts spotted sails coming up the Chesapeake Bay at 2 p.m. on August 14. No admiral’s red ensign was flying, but the lead ship was soon recognized as the 80-gun HMS Tonnant, flagship of Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, commander of the North American Station. Cochrane had lowered his admiral’s flag, seeking to conceal his presence from the Americans. But it would be known soon enough.
Cochrane’s hatred of America bordered on malevolence. “They are a whining, canting race, much like the spaniel and require the same treatment—[they] must be drubbed into good manners,” he declared. It was a level of venom not seen in George Cockburn, who disdained the Americans but did not particularly despise them.
Cochrane’s grudge dated back to the last war with the Americans, when his older brother, Major Charles Cochrane, with Cornwallis at the siege of Yorktown, peered over a parapet and was beheaded by an enemy cannonball.
Heavyset, with an oversize nose and curly hair, Cochrane was part of a Scottish clan with a long and noble line of military service, and carried himself with the dignified bearing of a man used to the privileges of his rank. He was accused of being greedy and callous, and some in England considered the entire family untrustworthy—“all mad, money-getting and not truth-telling,” as the naval hero Lord St. Vincent put it.
Cochrane’s hatred of America bordered on malevolence. “They are a whining, canting race, much like the spaniel and require the same treatment—[they] must be drubbed into good manners,” he declared.
Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, commander of the British North American Station.
But Cochrane’s biggest fault as a commander may have been an inability to make up his mind. “[H]is first resolves are generally correct but like his family his head is so full of schemes—that one destroys the other,” Rear Admiral Pulteney Malcolm, commanding the expedition’s troopships, complained to his wife.
While in Bermuda awaiting the arrival of reinforcements, Cochrane had spent many hours reviewing maps, concocting schemes, and pondering a long list of targets—New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Annapolis, Richmond, Norfolk, New England, Charlestown, Savannah, and New Orleans among them. Cochrane was sure about one thing: He was eager to lash out at the Americans. “I have it much at heart to give them a complete drubbing before Peace is made,” he wrote.
Before departing Bermuda, Cochrane had received a report from Sir George Prevost, the British commander-in-chief in Canada, detailing how the Americans had waged war against civilians by burning mills and homes at Dover, on the north shore of Lake Erie, and asking Cochrane to retaliate. Cochrane was happy to have this justification for his already existing plans to devastate coastal cities, adding the attacks to his list of grievances against America. On July 18, Cochrane issued an order to the senior officers of the North American Station that would soon become infamous: “You are hereby required and directed to destroy & lay waste such Towns and Districts upon the Coast as you may find assailable.”
But despite four months in Bermuda plotting destruction in America, Cochrane still had made no decision on where, when, or even if to attack. “I cannot at present acquaint their Lordships of what may be my future operations,” Cochrane wrote to the Admiralty in London as Tonnant sailed into the Chesapeake. “[T]hey will depend much on the information I may receive in this quarter.” That would depend on Cockburn.
Tonnant, a magnificent French ship-of-the-line captured at the Battle of the Nile by Lord Nelson, dropped anchor at 8:30. Cockburn wasted no time taking his gig to pay his respects to Vice Admiral Cochrane and General Ross.
The news was not good for Cockburn. Cochrane and Ross thought their force quite inadequate to launch any kind of a strike on the American capital and “appeared rather inclined to leave the Bay without even attempting a landing,” according to Cockburn’s later memoir. He went to work persuading them otherwise. Cockburn had served under Cochrane in the West Indies during the capture of Guadeloupe and Martinique in 1808 and 1809, and he knew how to handle the senior admiral.
Cockburn emphasized the paltry American defenses and pointedly reminded the new arrivals how much he had been able to accomplish with just 500 men. Reviewing his secret plan to capture the American capital, Cockburn proposed sailing the invasion force up the Patuxent River to the town of Benedict, which was the farthest that frigates or schooners could proceed before the river became too narrow and shallow. From Benedict, troops could be landed to attack Baltimore or Washington, the latter his preferred target.
Cockburn offered a new and tantalizing suggestion: Instead of marching straight to Washington, the army should move by land farther up the river, accompanied by navy barges, and hunt for Commodore Joshua Barney’s flotilla, still lurking in the upper Patuxent. This would confuse the Americans and leave them unsure how to respond. Were the British targeting Washington, Baltimore, or Barney? After destroying the flotilla, the British commanders could decide whether to continue to Washington, based on the resistance they had met. At the very least, they would take care of Barney.
Retaliation for Canada was a good reason to use for motivating the troops, but the real purpose for an attack on Washington, as urged by Cockburn, was strategic: An invasion in the geographic heart of America should draw troops away from Canada. Capturing the capital would be a psychological blow to the country and might force the collapse of the government. Beyond the strategic goals, the city was home to a target that by itself was worthy of attack: the Washington Navy Yard, the oldest military installation in the country. The frigate Columbia and sloop-of-war Argus were under construction at the yard, which was also an important repair and supply center for the U.S. Navy.
Ross was dubious about sending his small force so far into American territory. The reports of disease in the Chesapeake were also frightening. While afloat, Ross was under the command of Cochrane, who would determine where the expedition would sail and what it would target. But once the target was chosen, Ross had the authority to veto landing his troops, in particular any operation he thought likely to fail or result in heavy casualties.
Ross’s instructions from London were vague; he was to create a diversion somewhere “on the Coast of the United States of America” to relieve pressure on British troops operating in Canada. Lord Bathurst, the secretary of state for war and the colonies, had pointedly reminded Ross that the force was too small to take risks. Its size “will sufficiently point out to you that you are not to engage in any extended operations at a distance from the coast,” Bathurst wrote. The minister wanted the troops kept healthy.
Based on his instructions, Ross had every reason to be skeptical about Cockburn’s plan. Ross’s staff officers, more so than the easygoing general, were jealously guarding the army commander’s prerogatives. If the troops were landed, Ross would have sole command, not Cockburn, the “seageneral,” as the sailors called him. British
army Lieutenant George De Lacy Evans, the expedition quartermaster, was privately dismissive of the navy’s intelligence about the Americans, and considered the available maps and knowledge of local roads woefully deficient.
That said, Evans, the most aggressive of Ross’s subordinates, admitted that the army officers’ own ideas “zealously coincided” with Cockburn’s plan. In particular, they favored targeting Washington “on account of the greater political effect likely to result,” he later wrote.
Cockburn proposed a raid the following morning on the shores of the Potomac, and he invited Ross along to see the state of American defenses. Cochrane approved, and Ross accepted the invitation.
Cockburn would personally show Ross how easy it would be.
Major General Robert Ross, a blue-eyed, forty-seven-year-old Irishman with a handsome nose and cleft chin, had been personally chosen by the Duke of Wellington to lead the expedition to America’s east coast. He had been major general for only one year but had proven to be a brave and daring officer, with an even temperament that Wellington believed made him well suited for independent command. Ross had made an indelible name for himself in 1807 at Maida, in Calabria in southern Italy, when he rushed forward with the famed 20th Regiment on a flank attack that routed the French and almost single-handedly turned the tide of the battle.
Ross shone in one battle after another during the Peninsular War—the struggle with Napoleon for control of Portugal and Spain—from Vitoria, where he was awarded the gold medal for bravery, to Pamplona, where two horses were shot from underneath him. Though he was a strict disciplinarian, Ross’s straightforward manner and fair-mindedness had won him the undying loyalty of his troops.
Wellington was fond of Ross, Anglo-Irish like himself; they had played together as boys in Dublin. But Wellington did not play favorites, and it was Ross’s superb performance in the Peninsula that earned his selection to lead the expedition to America.
It was an honor Ross likely could have done without. He was still recovering from a serious wound suffered at Orthez, in southern France, in late February 1814, when he was hit in the neck attacking a French position during one of Wellington’s final victories in the Peninsular War. Ross blithely described “the hit I got in the chops” as a mere inconvenience, but it nearly killed him.
His wife, Elizabeth Catherine Glascock Ross—or Ly, as he called her—was at Bilbao on the north coast of Spain when she learned he had been wounded. She left their infant son with a nurse and set out on a mule across the snowy Pyrenees to reach her husband, lying in grave condition at the army headquarters in St.-Jean-de-Luz, France. “Her anxiety and spirit carried her through, enabling her to bear the fatigue without suffering from cold or bad weather,” Ross proudly wrote his brother-in-law when she arrived. Elizabeth had expected to return to Ireland with her recovering husband and their baby to rejoin their two older children following Napoleon’s abdication in April. But Ross had been unable to turn down the command, and on June 3, he sailed unhappily from Bordeaux.
During the nearly eight-week journey across the ocean to Bermuda, Ross wrote letters assuring his wife that America would quickly seek peace. “Be therefore my Ly more cheerful,” he wrote in June; “do not look upon the black side of the picture but be convinced of our speedily meeting again then our happiness will be heightened my Ly by our temporary separation.”
POTOMAC RIVER, MONDAY, AUGUST 15
At 2 a.m., the Royal Marines aboard HMS Menelaus and other ships across the squadron were roused from their slumber. Another raid was imminent. By 3:30, they were alongside Rear Admiral Cockburn’s flagship, Albion, loading the landing boats. When a large and cheerful army officer hopped into one of the boats, joining Cockburn and his Royal Marines, it was clear that this raid would be different.
The sun had just risen when Robert Ross stepped for the first time onto American soil on the banks of the St. Mary’s River, which flowed into the lower Potomac from southern Maryland. Moving ashore, Cockburn’s raiding party encountered plenty of bullocks, geese, sheep, and turkeys, but “nothing of the enemy,” an officer reported. That was not surprising. Cockburn had gone ashore in the same place just three nights earlier, scaring off the local militia and burning a warehouse near Leonardtown. Residents were in no mood for more.
Cockburn took Ross well inland, displaying the complete British command of the territory, and he showed off the Royal Marines’ skills maneuvering through thick woods. Ross felt at home, giving Cockburn tips on how to handle infantry. He and Cockburn established a quick rapport. They shared a certain élan, each insisting upon leading from the front. The admiral used the time ashore to press Ross for an attack on Washington.
That evening, Cockburn reported to Cochrane that he had only encountered “the same quiet and submissive conduct on the part of the inhabitants.” The new arrivals were impressed, not least because the raiding party showed no sign of fever. The raid had served its purpose. Ross and Cochrane would set Cockburn’s plan in motion, as soon as the fleet arrived with the troops.
CHESAPEAKE BAY, TUESDAY, AUGUST 16
Early Tuesday morning, a U.S. Navy lookout at Cape Henry, at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, peered through a spyglass and saw a mighty enemy force sailing in from the Atlantic Ocean—3 ships-of-the-line, 7 transports, 7 frigates, as well as assorted brigs, razes, and schooners—at least 22 ships in all.
Rear Admiral Pulteney Malcolm, commanding the fleet from the 74–gun ship-of-the-line HMS Royal Oak, received signaled instructions to press up the bay. The fleet swept past Norfolk, to the relief of residents and surprise of the troops on board, who had supposed the city would be their first target. The ships, moving much faster than messengers could travel on horseback, continued north on a steady breeze. “The sight is glorious, an English fleet standing up the enemy’s Bay with all sail set, filled with troops panting to meet the enemy,” Army Lieutenant George Gleig, aboard HMS Diadem, wrote in his diary.
Aboard the ships was a small but potent force from four experienced and disciplined regiments. About half the men were veterans of the Peninsular War who had earned the proud name of Wellington’s Invincibles. After six long and bloody years of fighting through Portugal and Spain, the duke’s magnificent army had crossed the Pyrenees and marched into France in the spring of 1814. “I could have done anything with that army,” Wellington later said.
The 4th Regiment of Foot—the King’s Own Royal Regiment—was a centuries-old unit that had shed blood in America at Concord and Bunker Hill. Under Wellington, they had burnished their record with legendary charges at Badajoz, Vitoria, and Salamanca. The 44th Regiment of Foot had a history in America dating to the French and Indian War, when it marched west with General Edward Braddock and was nearly massacred near present-day Pittsburgh, before retreating to safety under the leadership of a young George Washington. The 44th had fought Napoleon’s forces in Egypt, Holland, and Spain, though not under Wellington’s command. The 85th (Bucks Volunteers) Light Infantry Regiment, raised for service against France, had fought in the Netherlands and West Indies before joining Wellington in the Pyrenees. Sailing separately from the Mediterranean was a battalion from the 21st (Royal North British Fusilier) Regiment of Foot with a wealth of combat experience in Italy. The troops from the four regiments were tough and formidable fighters; but numbering less than 4,000, with no cavalry and a single artillery detachment, they were a mere wisp of Wellington’s army.
Crammed aboard dirty transports, living below the waterline in nearly airless compartments, enduring squalls, dreadful heat, and an alarming outbreak of typhus fever, the troops had plenty of time to build a deep dislike of America for this war that was keeping them from home. The wind carrying the expeditionary force up the Chesapeake on August 16 held steady all day, and by 7 p.m. the men saw Cochrane and Cockburn’s waiting ships, anchored near the mouth of the Potomac. The thunderous boom of naval guns echoed over the water, saluting the arriving forces. The largest enemy fleet ever seen in the upper Chesap
eake was now complete.
POINT LOOKOUT, MARYLAND, DAWN, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17
The morning light brought an astonishing sight for Thomas Swann, an American military observer stationed at the aptly named Point Lookout, on the north shore of the Potomac. The British fleet anchored off the point had grown dramatically overnight. Ships-of-the-line, transports, bomb ships, frigates, schooners, sloops-of-war, and other vessels were spread over two miles. He counted at least 46 ships.
Swann wrote a brief message to Secretary of War John Armstrong and gave it to a courier to race seventy miles to Washington on horseback. The size of the fleet and the proportion of transports pointed clearly in one direction: an invasion was coming.
To download a PDF of this map, click here.
CHESAPEAKE BAY, 8 A.M., WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17
The paneled great cabin of Tonnant was awash with blue-coated senior Royal Navy officers Wednesday morning. Four admirals were present—Cochrane, Cockburn, Malcolm, and Rear Admiral Edward Codrington, captain of the fleet—joined by some twenty captains of the battle fleet who had been rowed in from their respective ships. Ross and his small army staff were outnumbered, but a comity of spirit prevailed between the services as they examined “bad maps” and reviewed the plan for invasion.
The troopships, along with much of the fleet, would sail up the Patuxent to Benedict, with Ross taking charge of the expedition once the soldiers landed. Accompanied by a naval force in boats and barges under Cockburn, the British would first target Barney’s flotilla. The next target, if all went well, was much bolder: the capital of the United States. Ross had refused to commit to an attempt on Washington, but he had not ruled it out.
