New York Harbor

May 15, 1811

CHAPTER VIII

* * *

In the still, warm calm of late evening, Commodore John Rodgers, United States Navy, medium height, built strong, regular features, young, eager, laid his quill beside the inkwell. In the yellow light of two lanterns he sat quietly at his desk in the captain’s quarters while he read the entries he had just finished in the daily log of the USS President, a large, strongly built, three-masted ship-o’-the-line. The big vessel was tied to the New York docks on the south end of Manhattan Island, loaded heavy and riding low in the quiet, still waters of the harbor, scarcely moving with the gentle rise and fall of the currents and swells. She had been built for one purpose: carry forty-four cannon and hunt British ships.

Commodore Rodgers glanced at the clock—just past nine o’clock—adjusted one lantern, and tracked the carefully formed words with his finger as he read.

“May 15, 1811 . . . took on dried beef, salted pork bellies, flour, water, and other necessaries sufficient for two months service at sea . . . fully provisioned . . . assigned crew arrived and is on board . . . appear to be seasoned and reliable seamen . . . awaiting orders as promised . . .”

He nodded his satisfaction, plucked up his quill, dipped the split tip in the ink bottle, and scratched his signature. He laid the quill down and leaned back in his chair to stretch and dig the heels of his hands into tired eyes. He was not expecting the rap that came at his door, and for a moment stared at it before he called, “Enter.”

A young ensign, tall, slender, removed his tricorn, clamped it under his left arm, and ducked to enter through the small, low door. He bumped his head against the top of the doorframe once, winced, faced Rodgers, and quickly jerked upright to full attention. He whipped his right hand up to a salute and exclaimed, “Ensign Potter bringing a sealed letter to Commodore John Rodgers. Very important message. May I presume you to be Commodore Rodgers? Sir!”

Rodgers fought off a grin. “You may.”

Ensign Potter shoved his hand inside his tunic and fumbled for several seconds before his hand reappeared with a letter.

“Here, sir, is the letter. From the secretary of the Navy. Paul Hamilton. Sir.”

Rodgers stood to accept the document. “Thank you, Ensign Potter. That will be all.” He looked at the scrolled writing on the envelope, then turned it to break the wax seal. He stopped to look at Ensign Potter, still standing as rigid as the mainmast on the huge man-of-war, and asked, “Was there anything else, Ensign Potter?”

“Sir, would the Commodore care to have me wait. In case there’s a reply? Sir!”

“That will not be necessary. Thank you for your attention to this very important document.”

“Sir, no thanks are necessary, sir. Am I dismissed, sir?”

“Yes, you are dismissed.”

“Sir, thank you, sir.”

The young ensign turned on his heel and marched back to the door, ducked his head, bumped it once again on the low door frame as he stepped through, and disappeared.

Rodgers chuckled out loud. “Hit his head both coming and going. Now that boy has the makings of a real naval officer!”

He sat back down on his chair, broke the seal, and smoothed the letter flat on his desk to read it carefully.

“May 6, 1811 . . . assigned to take command of the USS President, forty-four guns . . . crew assigned to arrive on or before May 15, 1811 . . . sail as soon thereafter as possible . . . patrol the waters off Cape Henry, New Jersey coast . . . seek British vessels . . . capture them if possible . . . bring them to nearest United States port . . . if capture not possible then engage them wherever found and destroy them if necessary . . . objective is to rid the waters off the American east coast of all British interference.”

The signature was that of Paul Hamilton, secretary, United States Navy.

His eyes were bright as he contemplated his orders. Finally! Finally! He stopped and read the letter a second time, slowly, speaking each word softly to himself, to be certain the meaning was plain and unmistakable and could not lead to an unintended incident on the high seas.

There was but one message, and it could not be more clear: find British ships, capture them if possible. If not, sink them on the spot. Either way, get rid of them. Just find them and get rid of them. No questions asked.

He could not remember how long he had waited for these orders. He only knew he was sick to the bone of British warships that had been marauding the American coastline for too long, mauling American commercial ships, stealing cargoes, seizing American seamen on any pretext they could invent. He, and nearly every American in the tiny United States Navy, had taken just about all the humiliation from the insolent, arrogant, and condescending British they could swallow. Crew members had taken enough. The prevailing spirit had almost become: Forget orders! Forget protocol! Go find a British ship in American waters and capture it or blast it to the bottom of the Atlantic! That they had not done so was a tribute to their officers who would not tolerate disobedience to orders, at any cost.

He seized the letter, rose from his chair, picked his tricorn from its peg beside the door, and walked out into the night, to the quarters of his first mate, Alexander Buford. He knocked on the cabin door, waited for the muffled, “Enter,” and swung the door open. Buford, swarthy, dark-eyed and dark-haired, clearly showing Spanish blood, sat on his bunk. He rose to meet his captain.

“Sir?” he asked.

Rodgers raised a hand. “Just received our orders. Signed by Paul Hamilton himself. We’re to leave earliest, to patrol the waters off Cape Henry. We are to seek British gunboats wherever we find them. Capture them if we can, and if we cannot, we’re to sink them.”

Buford’s head thrust forward for a split second. “Engage them?”

“If they resist capture.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain. In writing.” He slapped the written orders against his open palm.

“When do you plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning at four o’clock. I want to be out of New York harbor and into the Atlantic by sunrise.”

Buford reached to wipe a hand across his mouth, eyes glowing, focused, intense. “Shall I inform the crew, sir?”

“Tell them to be on the main deck at four am ready to cast off and set sail. Do not mention these orders. I want to read this letter to them all at the same time.”

Buford was grinning in anticipation as he reached for his tunic. “Yes, sir. I’ll have them ready at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”

It was midnight before the last lantern went out in the crew’s quarters, with every man instinctively sensing that something monumental was happening, and they were to be part of it. It was past one o’clock when Commodore Rodgers twisted the wheel on his lantern and settled into his bunk in the darkness, blood up, mind racing, caught up in bright images of what tomorrow could bring. It was a long time before he drifted into a restless sleep.

At five minutes before four o’clock, Rodgers walked from his quarters out onto the quarterdeck to peer down at the main deck, Buford beside him. The entire crew stood facing them, silent, faces turned upward, eyes gleaming in the dim yellow light of the lamps. Rodgers wasted no time.

“Gentlemen, I have received our official orders from the secretary of the Navy, Paul Hamilton.”

He paused. No one moved.

“We are under direct orders to leave New York Harbor for patrol of the American waters off Cape Henry. We are to find British ships wherever they might be, and we are to take them captive and return them to the nearest friendly American port.”

Again he stopped, and a breathless hush seized the crew as they waited for him to continue.

Rodgers’ voice came calm, solid. “Should they resist capture, we are to fire on them and sink them if necessary. Rid American waters of all British ships.”

Instantly the still of the early morning was shattered by a thunderous shout of approval from the crew of the President. For more than a full minute, Rodgers and Buford stood still on the quarterdeck, giving their men permission to vent the humiliation and outrage they had suffered at the hands of the arrogant and despised British, listening to the sounds roll out across the dark, glassy waters of the New York Harbor. As the cheering began to quiet, Rodgers raised both hands, and it died.

“We leave now. Cast off. We can be clear of the harbor shortly after sunrise and in open water before nine o’clock.”

He turned to Buford. “Carry on, Mister Buford.”

The men were scattering to their duty posts before Buford could give the orders. A gentle westerly wind caught the unfurled sails on the mainmast, and the big ship moved slowly south, away from Manhattan Island, down the channel, past Long Island and Staten Island, then turned to port to clear the cape, and was out of the bay by the time the top arc of the rising sun was turning the black Atlantic waters to dark green. By nine o’clock they were running south in open seas, canvas tight in the wind and the beauty of a warm, cloudless day. It was midafternoon when a shrill, excited shout came down from the crow’s nest.

“Sail—due west off starb’rd! She’s British! The British Union Jack! Certain!”

On the quarterdeck, Rodgers and Buford instantly spun and jerked their telescopes to full extension and stood with feet spread while they focused on the tiny speck on the distant horizon. On the main deck, every available seaman jammed the starboard rail, eyes slitted while they searched.

Rodgers bawled his orders. “All canvas! Turn to starb’rd—due west! Set a course dead on that ship!” His arm was extended, pointing.

The helmsman spun the huge wheel while seamen scrambled up the ladders to the arms with the wind blowing their hair and beards and walked the ropes crabwise, to jerk the knots loose. The great sails on all masts dropped fluttering in the wind, and quick hands seized the ropes dangling from the lower edges to haul them in and tie them off. In seconds the big man-of-war came alive, plowing a twenty-five foot curl in the dark waters, leaving a white wake of more than one-hundred-fifty feet behind.

For long minutes Rodgers and Buford stood motionless, studying the fleck on the horizon, calculating, hoping.

“Will we catch her before dark?” Buford asked.

“It will be close,” Rodgers replied softly. “What time is it?”

Buford drew his watch from his tunic pocket. “Ten minutes until four o’clock, sir.” He dropped the watch back into its pocket, and there was deep hope in his voice as he muttered, “Maybe. Maybe.”

Time became meaningless as the President plowed on. Slowly the distant speck took shape, and then began to diminish.

“She’s seen us,” Rodgers exclaimed. “She’s running.” He turned to Buford. “Get the navigator!”

“Aye, sir.” Buford left the quarterdeck at a run and within half a minute returned with a young officer and spoke.

“The ship’s navigator, sir. Just assigned. John Dunson.”

Rodgers wasted no time on formalities. “Mister Dunson, are you acquainted with these waters?”

John’s answer was instant. “I am, sir.”

“Do I remember correctly? Are there reefs dead ahead, this side of the capes?”

“There are, sir. Bad ones. If that ship continues its present course those reefs will take out her hull.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

For a moment Rodgers stared into the intense eyes of John Dunson, judging whether or not he could trust this young navigator. He could. He spoke to Buford. “Steady as she goes.”

He turned to John. “Stand by. I’ll need to know when to expect that ship to turn.”

“Aye, sir. She’ll turn to port. Due south. If she turns to starboard she’ll run into about six reefs that protrude this direction, maybe three, four miles. They’re peculiar. Unexpected. They’ve wrecked a lot of ships that didn’t know they were there.”

Rodgers narrowed his eyes. “Think her navigator knows that?”

“My guess is yes, sir. They’re on the latest charts.” John pointed. “I will expect that ship to turn to port.”

Rodgers considered for a moment. “Do I understand this correctly? If we catch up to her, and we turn to port before she does, we can trap her against those reefs?”

“Yes, sir, you can. She’ll turn to port, or she’ll try to turn completely around and run for the open seas, or she’ll run aground on those reefs. The only problem is time. We’ll have to catch her before full dark or we’ll lose her.”

Rodgers nodded. “All right. You stand by. I’ll need to know when to start my flanking move to port.”

“Aye, sir.”

Rodgers turned to the helmsman. “Hold her steady.”

The big ship plowed on with anxious seamen interrupting their duties to peer straight ahead, gauging whether they were gaining on the miniscule black fleck on the horizon. The sun settled toward the western horizon, and by evening mess they were shading their eyes with their hands to peer almost directly into the great golden ball.

It happened suddenly. The coastline was in the distance, and the black dot became square sails, stopped nearly dead in the water, and for several minutes the President raced on. John Dunson stood beside Rodgers on the quarterdeck, concentrating intently on the speed of the big ship, the distance to the shoreline, and the location of the British ship ahead. Suddenly his arm shot up.

“Turn!” he exclaimed. “West by southwest! She’s just short of the reefs straight ahead and to starb’rd. Her captain will soon realize he has to turn her completely around, or try to outrun us in a race to portside. Turn!”

Instantly Rodgers gave his orders to the helmsman. “Sou’sou’west. Now!”

The big gunboat leaned slightly to starboard as she turned to port and continued. In just over ten minutes the small ship ahead turned to port and held her course with all sails full, her British flag bright in the setting sun. Every man on the main deck of the President was at the rails, watching in awed silence as the chase unfolded. The crew below decks prepared the evening mess, then put lids on the steaming kettles to hold them warm until the crew came down. The sun touched the mainland with the President running hard at an angle, trying to intercept the smaller ship as she sped due south along the rough shoreline. The sun disappeared, and in the dusky afterglow Rodgers pounded the rail of the quarterdeck with his hand. His voice was high, excited.

“I think we’ll catch her.” He turned to Buford. “Recognize her?”

Buford shook his head. “Can’t read her name. Not enough good light. I think she’s the Belvidera.”

Rodgers concentrated for a moment. “If she’s the Belvidera, she has thirty-six guns. A British man-o’-war. Fair game.”

“Fair game, but this is going to be close. We’ll be in full nightfall soon. The moon won’t rise until close to midnight. If we don’t catch her in the next thirty or forty minutes, we’ve lost her.”

Every crewman on the main deck of the President was at the rail, silently calculating whether the speed and the course of the two ships would bring them together before nightfall robbed them of the fight. Dusk began to close in, and the men licked at dry lips and wiped at their beards, excited, impatient, ready.

Rodgers shouted his orders. “All hands to battle stations! Load your cannon!”

Seamen sprinted to grasp the two-inch hawsers holding the heavy guns in place, and strong backs heaved to pull them back from their closed gunports. Ladles with six-foot handles were plunged into budge barrels where they measured black gunpowder, and seasoned gunners drove the ladles down the gun barrels, then turned them upside down to dump the powder before they drew them out. A second pair of hands stuffed dried grass in the gun muzzle and drove it down with a long-handled ram to lock the powder in. A third pair of eager hands hoisted a cannonball upwards and shoved it into the muzzle, followed by a ram that drove it back against the dried grass, and a little more dried grass followed to lock the cannonball against the powder charge. At the rear of the big gun, a man stuffed the fuse through the touch-hole and stood with the smoking linstock, ready to touch the fuse that would ignite the blast.

“Open your gunports,” Rodgers bellowed, and men jerked the clamps clear of the gunports and pulled them open, while others set their feet and bowed their backs to pull the hawsers that rolled the guns forward into firing position.

“Steady as she goes,” Rodgers called, and Buford stood beside him, unaware that he was rhythmically pounding the railing with both clenched fists as he watched the two ships plowing through the black Atlantic waters on a collision course. At eight hundred yards the British ship was a clean silhouette against the last bright glow of a sun already set. At four hundred yards the Americans could see movement on the deck of the racing ship, fast coming up on the President’s starboard side. At two hundred yards they could clearly make out individuals on the deck.

At one hundred yards Rodgers turned to the helmsman and ordered, “Turn due south, broadside.”

The big gunboat swung to port and came alongside the smaller British ship at seventy yards, and Rodgers raised his horn to bellow, “I am Commodore John Rodgers of the United States Navy. Spill your sails. I am coming aboard.”

There was no answer.

“Spill your sails, or I will presume you to be adversarial, and I will fire!”

Every man strained to hear the response, but the only sounds were the wind in the sails and rigging, and the curl being cut by the bow of both ships.

Rodgers took a deep breath and turned to his gun crews on the starboard side. They were turned to face him, nearly holding their breath as they waited for the order.

“Fire!”

The linstocks dropped, the fuses caught, and twenty heavy cannon on the starboard side bucked and roared. The muzzle flashes lighted both ships, and the billowing white smoke filled the void between the two racing vessels as the sound rolled out across the black water. The heavy cannonballs tore into the smaller ship, splintering rails, smashing into the two masts, cutting hawsers, knocking men down, some never to rise again.

“Reload!” shouted Rodgers and then turned his horn once more to the British ship.

“Spill your sails or suffer another broadside!”

Only three guns on the port side of the British ship had survived the near point-blank broadside, and they suddenly blasted an answer. Two cannonballs struck the President just below the second deck, harmless. The third cleared the main deck by ten feet and dropped into the sea beyond.

“Fire!” Rodgers shouted, and the second broadside roared. In the momentary light of the muzzle flashes, John Dunson suddenly jerked forward, staring.

“Reload!” Rodgers ordered, and efficient hands backed the guns from the gunports long enough to reload and roll them back into position.

“Fire!” Rodgers called, and once again the heavy cannon thundered.

John was at the rail, clutching it with both hands, head thrust forward, eyes wide as he concentrated on the image of the British ship in the light of the muzzle flashes. He saw holes smashed into her hull, and the shudder of the small ship at the impact of the third broadside, and watched both of her masts slowly topple, broken, shattered. Suddenly he straightened and turned to Rodgers, face white, voice high, intense.

“Sir, I don’t think that ship is the Belvidera! She’s not big enough, and she doesn’t have enough guns!”

Rodgers stared at him, dumbstruck. “Not the Belvidera? Who do you think she is?”

“I think it’s the Little Belt! Seventy tons. Twenty guns, not thirty-six! The Little Belt has been seen in these waters in the past three weeks, and I think that’s her! I think we’re cutting a ship half our size to pieces! She had no chance from the beginning! We’re outside the unwritten law!”

Rodgers voice was furious, filled with outrage. “Why didn’t she answer my challenge? Why? She knew better!”

“Maybe she thought she could outrun us,” John exclaimed. “Maybe her captain is under orders not to allow us to board. Pride—arrogance—who knows?—but whatever the reason, the report that captain will make to England will crucify us for what we’ve done. We might have committed an international incident that will start a war!”

Rodgers turned on his heel to face Buford. “Mister Buford?”

He shook his head. “She’s smaller than I thought, sir. I think Mister Dunson is right. I think it is the Little Belt.”

Rodgers stared at him. “Do we withdraw?”

“I would challenge one more time. If she does not answer, I would withdraw, sir.”

For several seconds Rodgers stood stock still, staring out across the narrow void between the two ships, then he cleared his throat and raised his horn.

“Identify yourself. Identify yourself. Are you the Little Belt?”

Every man in the crew of the President held his breath, waiting.

There was no answer.

“Do you need help? If you need help, spill your sails. We have a ship’s surgeon and medical supplies. If you need help, spill your sails. Answer. Answer!”

Again they waited, and there were only the sounds of the wind and the sea.

For a full thirty seconds Rodgers paced, slamming one fist into the palm of his other hand over and over again, grinding his teeth, face livid red. He stopped and barked orders to the helmsman.

“Hard to port. Due east. Withdraw. Withdraw.”

Then all the air went out of him and his shoulders slumped. He turned to Buford. “Order the gun crews to stand down. Close the gun ports. Make for open water.”

“Aye, sir.”

The big ship made the turn with Rodgers, Buford, and John all standing at the railing at the stern of the ship, staring silently through the darkness at the disappearing ship. There were a few fires on her deck, and lanterns began to wink on. In their minds the three men were seeing the carnage and the destruction they had inflicted on a once-proud ship and crew.

How many dead? Crippled? Is she seaworthy or mortally wounded? Will she get home to England?

On board the wreckage of the Little Belt, her captain wiped at the blood running from the bone-deep cut on his forehead into his eyes, trying to focus on the shattered pieces of his ship, and count his dead and wounded.

Nine dead. Twenty-three wounded. Both masts down. Hulled nine times. Taking on water. Fires. Low on provisions.

He straightened, and a light came into his eyes. We’ll survive. We’ll survive, and I will make my report to London. There is not one man in the Admiralty Department who will let this pass unpunished. They will pay, and the price will be more than they can bear. Much more.

Notes

On May 6, 1811, Paul Hamilton, secretary of the United States Navy, issued orders to the USS President to active duty patrolling American waters off the New Jersey coast at or near Cape Henry. Commodore John Rodgers was to be in command of the big American man-of-war that carried forty-four cannon. His orders were to clear the waters of marauding British ships. On May 16, he sighted and took chase of a British ship that eluded him all day, into the early evening. In fading light he caught the British ship and believed it to be the Belvidera, a British gunboat carrying thirty-six cannon. In fading light he delivered three devastating broadsides, only to realize it was not the Belvidera, but a much smaller ship named Little Belt, only seventy tons and carrying only twenty cannon. Realizing his mistake he withdrew, but his attack had killed nine British sailors and severely damaged the much smaller ship. When the incident was reported to the British admiralty in London, the outrage was overwhelming. The incident later became one of the direct causes of the War of 1812.

See Wills, James Madison, p. 112; Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 24; Horsman, The Causes of the War of 1812, p. 220; Stagg, pp. 45, 70, 144; Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, p. 42; Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 80, 83, 99, 144, 150, 154, 157, 244.

For a description of loading and firing a cannon as described herein, see Peterson, Round Shot and Rammers, p. 30.