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  The Dawn’s Early Light

  Walter Lord

  To Marielle Mactier Hoffman

  Contents

  Foreword

  ONE. Sails on the Chesapeake

  TWO. “Chastise the Savages”

  THREE. Face to Face

  FOUR. Sleepless Hours

  FIVE. Time Runs Out

  SIX. Bladensburg

  SEVEN. Ordeal by Fire

  EIGHT. Shock Waves

  NINE. Focus on Baltimore

  TEN. North Point

  ELEVEN. Fort McHenry

  TWELVE. Britain Struggles with Herself

  THIRTEEN. “The Dawn’s Early Light”

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter Notes

  Index

  Foreword

  TODAY, IT IS CALLED the War of 1812. Then, it was often called the Second War of Independence, and a glimpse of America during those trying times suggests the reasons why.

  Caught in the cross-fire of the Napoleonic Wars, the young republic was scorned as a real nation by the European powers. Both the French and the English ignored America’s “neutral rights,” but Britain’s immense sea power made her the chief offender. For years she had impressed American sailors on the high seas; had issued a series of Orders in Council forbidding trade with Continental Europe; had not only blockaded the French coast but seized American vessels suspected of trading with the enemy, wherever found on the oceans.

  For years America had proclaimed her rights in vain. Threats, lures, embargo, a Non-Intercourse Act—all were tried in turn, and nothing worked. Meanwhile other sores were festering too. The agricultural south saw its crop prices drop in the wake of British trade restrictions. Western settlers feared British intrigue among the Indians. Land-hungry “war hawks” openly longed for Canada.

  Finally President James Madison came to the end of the road. Perhaps it would have been different if he had known that London had for domestic reasons already decided to repeal the hated Orders in Council. But the step was taken and the news arrived too late. On June 18, 1812, the United States formally declared war on Great Britain.

  Yet the very vote for war showed how nearly right Europe was in refusing to take the new country seriously. The results showed anything but a strong, united people. All the Federalists in Congress voted against the declaration. In the Senate the margin was only 19 to 13, with New England almost solidly opposed. To the banking and shipping circles of the east, the loss of an occasional ship or sailor was a small price to pay for the profits to be made.

  Nor did the war itself weld the nation together. “Let the southern Heroes fight their own battles,” advised the Reverend Elijah Parish of Massachusetts. In New York and New England a lively smuggling trade developed, supplying the British armies in Canada. To stop this traffic, Madison tried an embargo on all shipping. It was soon abandoned; it only increased the dissent that tore at the country.

  Economically, America seemed almost hopelessly weak. Committed to low taxes, the administration tried to finance the war by borrowing, but money proved hard to get. Foreign banks were leery; while New England, the wealthiest section of the country, declined to cooperate. Soon Washington was practically broke—Congress felt it couldn’t even afford $6,000 to pay the salaries of two Assistant Secretaries of War.

  Militarily too the picture was bleak. The Constitution beat the Guerrière, and American privateers raised havoc with British commerce, but the main front was Canada, and here there was little to cheer about. Perry won Lake Erie, but it was clear by the end of 1813 that the Canadian front was a bloody stalemate.

  Nor did the east coast escape. British warships maintained an ever-tighter blockade, and during much of 1813 an enemy squadron roamed at will about the Chesapeake Bay. Raiding parties burned Frenchtown and Havre de Grace, pillaged Hampton, and prowled up the Potomac only 50 miles from Washington itself. The President’s irrepressible wife Dolley dusted off “the old Tunisian sabre,” but she seemed the only one prepared. The militia fluttered helplessly about, and naval defense was virtually nonexistent.

  Finally the British sailed away, but by the spring of 1814 a strong squadron was back in the Bay again, harassing the shores as it pleased. Then in May sensational news arrived from France: Napoleon had fallen. His defeat released thousands of Wellington’s tough veterans for service elsewhere—presumably across the Atlantic. Reports set the figure as high as 25,000 men; the objective: “unconditional submission.”

  And so the summer of 1814 found America threatened with national extinction—her people torn by dissension … her treasury empty … her economy in ruins … her coasts blockaded and defenseless … her army bogged down … her navy bottled up … her cities and farms now facing a new, apparently irresistible blow to be delivered at will by the richest, most powerful nation in the world. It would not be surprising if the whole American experiment collapsed under the impact.

  Yet within eight months all had changed. America was again at peace, her people unified, her economy mending, her army and navy bursting with pride, her prospects limitless, her position safe in the family of nations. The turning point in this remarkable reversal of fortune is the story of this book. …

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sails on the Chesapeake

  THE GUESTS AT THE Pleasure House, a popular inn near Cape Henry, Virginia, could hardly believe their eyes. There in the first light of August 16, 1814, the horizon was dotted with sails, standing in from the rolling Atlantic.

  By 8:30 they were entering the Chesapeake Bay, and Joseph Middleton—the U.S. Navy’s lookout stationed at the hotel—could make them out pretty well: three big ships of the line, a brig, a topsail schooner, several frigates, at least nine transports—some 22 vessels altogether. With a good glass he caught sight of the blue flag of a British admiral flying from the mizzenmast of the leading ship. Middleton jotted down the details, and by 9:45 an express rider was pounding hard for Norfolk. But the ships didn’t head that way. They turned north, and with fair wind and tide swept on up the Chesapeake.

  Around 1:00 P.M. they passed New Point Comfort … 3:00, they were off Gwynn’s Island … 6:00, Lieutenant Colonel John Shewning reported them abreast the Dividing Creeks near Wicomoco Church … 7:00, Major Hiram Blackwell picked them up off Smith Point at the mouth of the Potomac. Here they met about a dozen other ships, already in the Bay, and as the two groups joined forces, the evening echoed with the thunder of saluting guns.

  Dawn of the 17th, a meticulous lawyer from Washington, D.C., named Thomas Swann took up the watch. Swann was a volunteer military observer for the U.S. Army, stationed at Point Lookout on the northern side of the mouth of the Potomac. His job was especially to keep an eye on ship movements.

  This morning he had his hands full. The ships were spread over two miles, and a heavy August haze made the viewing difficult. But he managed to count them up, and during the night the total had grown to 46 sails. Adding three more frigates off St. Georges Island and another two in the Patuxent River, that made 51 altogether.

  At 8:15 A.M. they began to head up the Bay again. There was no more time to lose. To Swann, all those transports meant only one thing: invasion. It was the third year of this ugly war with Britain, and now at last the fighting was moving south from the Canadian border to the nation’s front door.

  Collaring a young man by the name of Carmichael, Swann dashed off a dispatch and started him for Washington 70 miles away. All over the tidewater countryside other riders too were galloping over the rutted clay roads, bound on the s
ame mission. For every vantage point in sight of the Bay, there was some leading citizen or militia officer who, heart in mouth, scribbled down the details and sent word to alert the capital.

  Meanwhile Washington lay dozing and unknowing in the August heat. Few could see any danger. John Armstrong, the stubborn, arrogant New York Democrat who was Madison’s Secretary of War, felt the city was perfectly safe. Who on earth would want the place? He never liked the capital here, and every time he looked at the little clusters of buildings scattered around the swamps and meadows, he knew he was right. “This sheep walk,” he called it.

  James Monroe, the dedicated but ambitious Secretary of State from Virginia, feuded with Armstrong over almost everything; but on the subject of Washington’s safety he was inclined to agree. Late in June he had written Minister William Crawford in Paris that any British expedition had “little prospect of success.”

  Secretary of the Navy William Jones, a modest, hard worker from Philadelphia, felt just as secure. In May, when Madison suggested that he might strengthen the capital’s naval posture, Jones had three 12-pounders mounted on carriages at the Navy Yard. The cooks and clerks at Marine headquarters would man them. The rest of the cabinet were equally confident.

  Some of these officials, it must be added, had their occasional doubts. When several of His Majesty’s ships blockaded Commodore Joshua Barney’s flotilla of American gunboats up the Patuxent River in June, Secretary Jones did indeed warn Barney of a possible strike at Washington. But on the whole, nobody expected anything serious, and every alarm was followed by a return to complacency.

  There was one exception: the President himself. But James Madison was anything but forceful in driving home his opinions. He had none of that quality that would later be called charisma; he was only five feet six; always dressed in black with old-fashioned knee britches. Unkindly but not unreasonably, Washington Irving called him “a withered little applejohn.”

  Yet he had a good head—Jefferson said there was none better—and his good head told him that with Napoleon out of the way, the British would be coming in force. Then, on June 26 a grim letter arrived from England supporting his worst fears. Dated May 6, it came from Albert Gallatin and James Bayard, two of five American peace commissioners sent by Madison at Downing Street’s suggestion. They were marking time in London until the site of the conference was set, and what they saw was chilling. England had the troops to spare, “and there can be no doubt that if the war continues, as great a portion of that disposable force as will be competent to the objects of the British government will be employed in America.…”

  That was enough for Madison. No time to waste trying to wake up Armstrong. Enlisting Monroe’s help, the President quickly conjured up his own defense plan. It called for concentrating 2,000 or 3,000 men at some point covering both Baltimore and Washington. They would be in the field, ready to fight. An additional 10,000 to 12,000 militia would be earmarked in neighboring states, ready to assemble and march when called. It would have been better, of course, to put them on active duty, but as usual the problem was money. The government couldn’t afford to pay or feed them.

  Since the whole mission of this force was to protect the capital, the President also decided to give it special status by setting up a new military district for the area, under a separate, independent command. The new commanding general would be an attractive 39-year-old Brigadier named William Henry Winder.

  In peacetime General Winder had been a Baltimore lawyer and politician. He had seen little military service. In his only battle he had been captured on the Canadian front and just recently exchanged. His ideas on tactics were unknown, and his immediate superior, Secretary Armstrong, was against the appointment.

  Yet there were good reasons for naming him. First, he was available—often important in the military selection process. Also, the very fact that Armstrong opposed him worked in his favor with Monroe, as the two Secretaries continued their feuding. But most important, Winder’s uncle was the Honorable Levin Winder, the Federalist Governor of Maryland. The state was bitterly divided on the war, yet had to supply most of the militia for this particular effort. It was all-important to win the Governor’s support. What better way than to make his nephew the commanding general?

  July 1, promptly at noon, the cabinet assembled to hear the plan at the President’s House on Pennsylvania Avenue. Standing bare on unlandscaped ground, the building had a rather unfinished look; yet it somehow promised great things to come, and along with the Capitol, it was quite the pride of Washington. It was just beginning to be called the White House.

  Madison explained the danger, collected some unimpressive defense statistics from Armstrong, then outlined his scheme. The cabinet had no ideas to add, and the meeting adjourned after a large dinner, which the President always hoped in vain would bring his official family closer together.

  Now to put the plan into action. July 2, the 10th Military District was officially set up, covering northern Virginia, Maryland and the District of Columbia, with General Winder in command. July 4, a requisition went out to the governors of all 15 states calling for 93,500 militia to be held in readiness.

  It took General Winder about a week to discover that his command existed mainly on paper. He had no staff, no transport, no surgeon, no provisions, no rifles, no flints. There wasn’t even a guard at his door. There were few regulars and no militia. It turned out that Secretary Armstrong had a pet theory that militia fought best on the spur of he moment. It dulled their spirit, he felt, to spend time drilling in camp; so they would be called up only when the British appeared.

  Winder did his best to point out that this would be too late. “What possible chance will there be of collecting a force after the arrival of the enemy?” he wrote Armstrong on July 9. “He can be in Washington, Baltimore or Annapolis in four days after entering the Capes.”

  Armstrong never even answered. Stuck with a plan and a general he didn’t want, he let the whole business slide. He rarely replied to any of Winder’s letters. He failed to stockpile military stores, as directed by the President. It took him six days to get a copy of the militia requisition to the Governor of Maryland, only 23 miles away. He idled ten days before sending Winder authority to call out any of the militia he had been appointed to command.

  Even then, the General was severely limited. Although the militia pool totaled 93,500 men, Winder was authorized to draw only on Maryland’s quota of 6,000—and these only “in case of actual or menaced invasion.” Later some Pennsylvanians and Virginians were added on the same basis, but he never had authority to call more than 3,000 Marylanders for immediate service.

  Undismayed, Winder deluged the Secretary with a stream of suggestions and questions. How to strengthen Annapolis? Were express riders stationed at observation points along the Bay? Shouldn’t the militia from remote places be drafted first, since it would take them longer to assemble? Would Armstrong order some necessary tents and supplies? “I have no knowledge where these articles are.… I must pray you give the necessary orders.”

  As usual, Armstrong didn’t answer.

  The Secretary’s whole performance seemed incredible to tall, impressive Major General John P. Van Ness, who commanded the District of Columbia Militia. A civic-minded banker deeply involved in the capital’s future, he had seen Secretary Armstrong on several occasions, always urging that the city’s defenses be strengthened. This July he finally went to James Monroe and asked if the government was deliberately planning to abandon Washington. Not at all, said Monroe; “every inch” would be defended.

  More danger signals were coming in. Mid-July, a batch of Canadian newspapers arrived, reporting that thousands of British troops were boarding transports in France, bound for America. The stories were uncomfortably specific, even ticking off the regiments. The latest London papers said the same thing.

  Van Ness decided to try once again. He went back to Armstrong, this time urging an extension of the earthworks at Fort Washington, a
key position 12 miles down the Potomac. The owner of the land wanted too much for it, the Secretary replied, “considering how poor the government was.”

  In exasperation Van Ness got the local banks to offer the administration a $200,000 loan to build the necessary fortifications. If the government wouldn’t put up the money to defend its own capital, the citizens would do it themselves.

  No one charged General Winder with such indifference. The commander of the 10th Military District was a whirlwind. Nothing seemed too small to occupy his personal attention. One minute he was mediating a quarrel between Paymaster Clark and Colonel Carberry over the clerical services of Sergeant Rowe … the next, he was telling “the non-commissioned officer left at Butler’s Mills” to obey his captain … the next, he was arranging a corporal’s guard to escort two cannon to Washington.

  And all the while, he was dashing around the countryside at a pace suggesting that he equated activity with accomplishment. July 24, he was at Nottingham … the 25th, at Fort Washington … the 26th, at Port Tobacco … the 27th, at Piscataway … the 28th, at Upper Marlboro … the 30th, back at Washington. He gyrated about so much that one of Armstrong’s few letters, mailed on the 17th, took 22 days to catch up with him.

  This passion for trivia and movement left little time for the kind of thinking that went into being the commanding general. Weeks rolled by, yet Winder developed no overall plan for defending his district. The capital had no fortifications, nor did he devise any. Alexandria, the most important city near Washington, was left entirely out of his calculations. He was desperate for men, but did little to get them. He was positively diffident when he wrote Major General Samuel Smith, the tough commander of the 3rd Division of Maryland Militia, asking how much help he might expect. Winder wondered whether the Maryland troops would act under himself or, as he gingerly put it, “whether they expected to act as allies with the troops in the service of the United States but independently of their authority and that of their officers and solely for the defense of Baltimore.”