Atlantic Ocean, east of the New Jersey Coast

July 17, 1812

CHAPTER XV

* * *

Midday mess for His Majesty’s Ship Shannon was two hours past, and her officers and crew were at their stations, quiet, squinting in the fierce afternoon sun, studying the flat line where the green-black Atlantic met the pale blue of a cloudless July sky. Due west twelve miles, just beyond the horizon, was Barnegat Bay in the southern reaches of the state of New Jersey. To the north, south, and east was the open sea. Under orders of British vice admiral Sawyer, Captain Philip Vere Broke had led a squadron of British frigates to cruise the east coast of America with the object of attacking any seagoing vessel flying American colors and creating as much havoc as possible. The squadron assigned the task consisted of the Shannon with thirty-eight guns, the Belvidera with thirty-six cannon under command of Captain Richard Byron, the Africa with sixty-four cannon under command of Captain John Bastian, the Aeolus with thirty-two guns under command of Captain Lord James Townsend, and the Guerriere with thirty-eight cannon under command of Captain James Richard Dacres. They were five frigates flying the British Union Jack, carrying two hundred eight cannon, ranking among the best in the most powerful navy in the world and commanded by some of the finest seagoing officers in the king’s military service.

The crews felt no panic, since the entire American navy consisted of less than twenty fighting ships, and most of them were scattered far to the north, some in the Great Lakes. There wasn’t the faintest possibility that there were enough American gunboats within two hundred miles to make a fight of it against the firepower and the skill of the British squadron. For the British crews, it was just a matter of finding another American ship, taking her crew and cargo captive, and burning her at sea. The British crews remained calm, watchful, ready to pursue and destroy.

In his small quarters high above the water at the stern of the Shannon, squadron commander Broke sat at his small desk, leaning forward, rereading his entry in the ship’s log for the previous day. Slender, dark-haired and dark-eyed, hawk-nosed with a cleft chin, he followed the words with one finger.

“July 16th ’12.

“. . . sighted, pursued, and captured United States brig Nautilus, 14 guns . . . Lieutenant Crane commanding . . . he attempted flight to avoid capture . . . threw all cannon overboard to lighten her . . . took entire crew prisoner with all items of value . . . set her afire . . . confirm that she sank . . . no casualties in our squadron. . . .”

Satisfied, he plucked up his quill and signed his name. He salted the wet ink, blew the crumbs into a small basket for waste, set the log in its desk drawer, and turned to open the two small windows behind him, hoping for a stir of air in the heat of the summer afternoon. He was settling back into his chair when the call came from the crow’s nest, seventy feet up the mainmast.

“Sail ahead to the windward! American!”

Broke grabbed his telescope and was buttoning his tunic as he trotted up the few stairs from his cabin onto the main deck, then up to the quarterdeck. He jerked his telescope to full extension and carefully scanned the horizon to the southeast, and it was there—the small pyramid of sails on two masts, with the tiny flag of red and white stripes, and the blue field with specks of white, fluttering in the mild breeze. For ten seconds he tracked her to take a reading on her bearing and anything that would tell him that the American ship had seen his squadron.

The British ships were traveling southwest, angling toward the New Jersey coast. The American frigate was traveling northeast, out into the open Atlantic.

Broke lowered his telescope. “She’s heading for the open sea! I think she’s seen us. I think she intends trying to sail around us.” A smile tugged as he gave his orders to his first mate, Gerald Laughlin.

“Mister Laughlin, I think the Americans are going to try to go around us. Make a chase of it. Signal the Guerriere. Captain Dacres is to take a heading to the east by northeast. Get to the east of the Americans and cut off their attempt to escape.”

“Aye, sir.” Laughlin, sandy-red hair, long, bright-red sideburns, round, ruddy face, built strong, clearly and proudly Irish, turned and trotted away. Within minutes the signal flags were run up the mainmast, and the Guerriereabruptly changed course from southwest to southeast, angling to force the oncoming American ship back into the trap that was being laid with four British gunboats on one side, and a fast frigate with thirty-eight guns on the other.

Broke cupped his hand to call up to the crow’s nest. “When you can, get a count of her guns, and identify her.”

“Aye, sir.”

All eyes in the British squadron were on the American ship, straining to get out into the open Atlantic to escape the five gunboats. Minutes became one hour before the call came from the crow’s nest.

“Frigate, sir. I count forty-four guns, all on the top deck. If I read it right, sir, she’s the Constitution.”

For a split second every man on the Shannon stopped dead in his tracks to stare at the distant sails with the tiny flag fluttering, and Captain Broke took a deep breath with his thoughts running.

If that’s the Constitution, she’s a Joshua Humphreys frigate. That Yankee Quaker designed the best in the world—all guns on one deck—more armor in the hull than any other frigate—more canvas—smaller draft—carry four hundred fifty men and supplies and armament and still outrun and outmaneuver any other gunboat afloat—our parliament tried to get him to build frigates for us, but he refused—took them to the United States instead.

He turned to Laughlin. “Do you recall who might be in command of the Constitution?”

The first mate’s brow knitted down as he concentrated. “Seems to me it was Hull. Captain Isaac Hull.”

For several seconds Broke reached into his memory. “Isn’t Hull the one they sent to Detroit? To take Fort Malden?”

“That was General William Hull, sir,” Laughlin replied. “Isaac Hull is his nephew. William Hull is army. Isaac Hull is navy.”

“What is his reputation? Isaac Hull?”

Laughlin drew a deep breath. “Very good, sir. At times, brilliant. If that’s a Joshua Humphreys frigate out there, and Isaac Hull is in command, this could become most interesting.”

For a moment Brock clamped his mouth, and his eyes were alive as he said quietly, “We’ll see about that. We’ll see.”

Both men turned to peer to the northeast for a time, judging the speed of the Guerriere, calculating when she would pass to the east of the Constitution and force her back to the west, into the four British ships that were waiting to spring the trap. Minutes passed before Laughlin turned to Broke.

“Sir, it is going to be close. Perhaps the Constitution will win the race for position.”

Broke shook his head. “She won’t escape, but the two of them might be on a collision course out there.” He glanced at the sun. “I think Hull is playing for time. Hopes to stall this pursuit until dark.”

Laughlin wiped at his mouth. “Outmaneuver five of us? Most unlikely, sir.”

While they watched, the Constitution changed course to due east with the Guerriere straining to intercept her. With the westering sun hot at his back, Laughlin’s arm shot up to point, voice high, excited.

“I think the Constitution is squaring for a fight.”

Broke nodded but remained silent, while the thought flickered in his mind. I wonder what Captain Isaac Hull plans to do—how he sees this—one American frigate against five British gunboats—he can’t fight us all—his only chance is to beat us in a race for an American port—how does he plan to do it?—what’s in his mind?

Three miles to the east, Captain Isaac Hull stood on his quarterdeck, telescope extended, studying the Guerriere coming in two miles ahead of him, to the north. Then he turned to watch the other four British gunboats due west. Medium height, nose too long and pointed, eyes wide-set, chin slightly receding, dark-haired, Hull’s voice was steady, controlled, as he gave his orders.

“Helmsman, steady as she goes for two more minutes, then hard to port.”

“Aye, sir.”

The two minutes seemed too long before the frigate turned left, leaning right, and the crew leaned opposite to keep their footing. While they watched, the Guerriere, almost dead ahead, made a hard turn to starboard to take a heading to the west that would bring her directly across the course taken by the Constitution, but far out of gun range. Half an hour later the Guerriere was past the Constitution and slowing, and Hull called to his helmsman, “Steady as she goes.” He turned to his gun crews. “Open all gun ports and prepare to load.”

He called to his young navigator, twenty feet away on the quarterdeck silently watching everything. “Mister Dunson! What is our depth? Are we clear to maneuver without fear of reefs or sandbars?”

The answer came instantly. “About sixty-five fathoms where we are, sir. It reduces to about fourteen fathoms to the north of us, but there is no danger of reefs or sandbars or shallow water within about two hundred miles. To the west, near the coast, there are reefs.”

“Stand by on the quarterdeck. See to it you keep me advised if there is danger.”

“Aye, sir.”

On board the Guerriere, Captain Dacres stared at the oncoming Constitution in amazement. She’s not turning! She intends engaging us if she must! One against five? What is she counting on?

He glanced at the sun, half set, catching the sails and the flags to set them glowing like fire, casting long shadows eastward.

Darkness? If he intends slipping away in darkness, why is he coming dead on to engage us? Dacres suddenly turned to peer behind the Guerriere, then carefully swept the horizon in all directions for distant sails beneath American flags. There were none.

Are there other American gunboats coming? Does the Constitution have a squadron out there in waiting, listening for cannon fire? Or is he bluffing?

He spoke to his helmsman. “Hard to port. Take a new heading due north, parallel with the Constitution but one mile west of her. We will come alongside her within gun range gradually.”

“Aye, sir.”

With the ship turning, Dacres called up to his crow’s nest, “Keep a sharp eye in all directions. Report immediately if American ships come into view.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cautiously the Guerriere took up a position just over one mile west of the Constitution, and with the sun already set and dusk setting in, began to close the distance slowly, watching for unexpected sails or lights from any direction. The afterglow of the sun faded and was gone. The evening star rose prominent in the east, and still the two ships held their course north, with the four ships companion to the Guerriere lost in the distance and the darkness. The light breeze began to dwindle. The sails fell limp, and both ships slowed to a near standstill.

In the full darkness of ten o’clock, Captain Isaac Hull, on the quarterdeck, called for his first mate, Erling Strand, blonde, blue-eyed, jutting chin, ponderous, speaking English with a strong Swedish accent.

“Get the signal lanterns and start sending messages so the Guerriere can see them.”

Strand stared at him in the darkness for a moment. “What messages, sir?”

“‘We are engaged with the British. Come immediately.’ Repeat it until I give orders to stop.”

A slow smile crossed the big man’s face. “Aye, sir.”

Within minutes the lanterns were on the quarterdeck in the hands of a bos’n’s mate who could send and read the signals of both navies. The shutter began to click, and the light reached out across the black waters.

On board the British Guerriere, Dacres and Laughlin both stopped dead on the quarterdeck, their heads thrust forward in disbelief. Light signals? For whom?

“Can you read them?” Dacres exclaimed.

For a full five minutes, both men, and most of their crew, stood at the rails of the scarcely moving ship. Then Laughlin’s Irish brogue came, too high, excited.

“She’s calling for help! From ships out there somewhere in waiting!”

“That’s how I read them,” Dacres exclaimed. Instantly he shouted up to the crow’s nest, “Do you see those signals?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Can you read them?”

“Aye, sir. They’re calling for help.”

“Have you seen anything of more ships?”

“No, sir. None. Been watching steady.”

Dacres turned back to the helmsman. “Do not close with them until I give the direct order.”

“Aye, sir.”

The two ships moved slowly on north, side by side, less than one mile apart, in a wind that was nearly gone. Forty minutes later, aboard the Constitution, Hull gave orders and the message lantern shut down. At midnight the crews on both ships changed, and the silent vigil continued with Hull and his first mate and navigator remaining on the quarterdeck of the American frigate.

At three o’clock, Captain Dacres on the Guerriere spoke to his helmsman.

“Take a heading that will close the gap. Slowly. I do not want to be within gun range before good light.”

“Aye, sir.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between the two scarcely moving ships lessened, with each crew watching the other in tense silence. Then, at half past three o’clock, in the blackness, the strained shout came down from the crow’s nest on the Guerriere.

“Lights! Astern! Four ships approaching!”

Dacres and Laughlin had not left the quarterdeck since sunset. Instantly they raised their telescopes and in twenty seconds counted the running lights of four ships, spaced out behind them in a line. Battle formation!

Before Dacres could give the order, Laughlin broke for the main deck and down into the seamen’s quarters. Two minutes later he shoved a barefooted man still in his underwear and struggling to come awake, up onto the quarterdeck. Laughlin lighted a signal lantern, shoved it into the hands of the seaman, and turned to Dacres, waiting.

“Challenge those ships,” Dacres ordered, pointing.

The man shook the cobwebs from his head, and the shutter started clicking. Five times he sent the message, “Identify yourself. Identify yourself. What is your flag? What is your flag?”

There was no response. The ships came on slowly, running lights dim, but no answer to the challenge of the Guerriere.

Dacres faced Laughlin. “Who are they?” he exclaimed. “John Rodgers and his American squadron have been active in these waters lately. Is it them? Have they laid an elaborate trap for us? We have no chance if those ships are frigates under command of John Rodgers.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. But what if they are not Rodgers? Could they be the Belvidera and the rest of our own squadron?”

Dacres shook is head. “Then why didn’t they answer my challenge?”

“I don’t know, sir. I have no explanation.”

Dacres took a deep breath and by force of will brought his thoughts under control. I cannot risk loss of this ship—until I know what I’m contending with out there I cannot commit to battle—two more hours until daylight—the Constitution will still be there—we wait—we stay with her and we wait.

Dacres gave his orders, the helmsman obeyed, and the Guerriere changed her heading and held it until she was more than one mile from the Constitution, and then straightened to run parallel with her, moving northward with the other four unidentified ships following. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, scarcely disturbing the sails of the strange, scattered procession, moving almost imperceptibly north in the darkness before dawn.

The morning star was fading, and the eastern sky was a deep purple against the black of the Atlantic when Hull, on the quarterdeck of the American frigate, again extended his telescope and searched for the five British ships. One by one he found them. Astern of his port side were the Belvidera and the Guerriere. Directly south, behind him in the far distance, came the Shannon, Aeolus, and Africa. He brought his telescope back to the Belvidera and Guerriere, making his best calculations of their speed compared to his, with the stand-or-fall question bright in his mind.

Can they catch me?

His eyes narrowed, and a look of defiance came across his face. Not if I can help it. Come on—all five of you—and we’ll see who wins this race. Come on. Come on.

Three miles south and east of him, Captain Dacres stood on the quarterdeck of the Guerriere with his telescope to his eye, straining to identify the four ships that had loomed up in the night and refused to answer his signal lantern asking them to identify themselves. Suddenly his head jerked forward and he brought the telescope down, mouth gaping open, staring in disbelief. Those four ships are my own squadron! Not Rodgers! He exclaimed aloud, “Those fools! Those fools! Why didn’t they answer my challenge?”

His face was flushed with hot anger when he turned to Laughlin, “Get the signal lantern! Ask those ships why they didn’t identify themselves three hours ago when I challenged!”

Three minutes later, in the twilight before sunrise, the signal lantern blinked out the question. Within seconds the signal lantern on the Belvidera answered:

“We were certain you knew who we were. Saw no need to answer.”

There was outrage in Dacres’s voice as he barked orders to Laughlin. “Make a record of this entire incident, and do it today! Be certain it includes the fact I challenged in the night, and they did not answer. The result is that this morning that American ship ahead of us—the Constitution—is still afloat and it will be a close question if we can catch her.” He raised a fist in anger. “By the Almighty, there will be courts-martial over this, and I want a record that leaves no question as to who failed in their duty! Am I clear?”

“You are, sir.”

The first arc of the rising sun laid a sparkling golden path to the west across the shimmering waters beneath a cloudless blue sky, with the heat from the great burning ball following, while the odd procession worked its way north, the lone American ship straining for its life, followed by the five British gunboats intent on her destruction. On the quarterdeck of the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull stood transfixed, his eyes never leaving the five men-of-war whose sole objective was to take his ship, her cargo, and her guns, and imprison his crew.

The sun was half risen when he felt the deck beneath his feet settle, and the frigate slow, then stop dead in the water. He peered over the stern to see water in which there was no movement, then turned to look east. The Atlantic had become a sheet of glass. There were no waves, no whitecaps in the water, no movement. The sails hung limp, useless, and their flag hung down unmoving. The Constitution would not answer her helm—she was adrift.

They were becalmed.

Hull set his teeth. If we’re becalmed, so are they. Now we find out who has the will and the seamanship to win this contest!

He turned to Strand. “Load the longboats—all of them—with towing hawsers and get them into the water. Break the crew into squads and man the longboats to tow the ship!”

“Aye, sir.”

While Strand set the crew scrambling to throw tied coils of two- inch hawsers into the ten longboats and lower them on ropes and pulleys into the calm water with their crews, Hull stood on the quarterdeck with his telescope extended, studying the five British warships far behind. They, too, were lowering their longboats, but there was one crucial difference. Nearly all the longboats from all five British ships were taking a position ahead of the Shannon, and falling into orderly lines to tow her! Calmly, Hull made a count. There were twenty-two British longboats towing one frigate; he had ten to tow his own.

The Shannon began to steadily gain.

Hull turned to shout orders to Strand. “Get a twenty-four pounder from the main deck and the forecastlechaser. Move them to the stern. Cut away the railing to give them freedom of movement. Then get two more of the twenty-four pounder long guns from the main deck into my cabin and line them out through the windows to cover our stern! Get the gun crews ready.”

Minutes passed while Strand and two dozen men jerked the four guns from their mounts and moved them to the stern of the ship, two on the main deck, two in the captain’s quarters, muzzles thrust out through the windows. Strand was sprinting back to the quarterdeck to report to Hull when the first stir of a breeze fluttered the sails, and it held. For more than ten minutes the Constitution gained speed moving north, and then the wind died and did not stir again.

While the crew of the American frigate watched in tense silence, the Shannon, with the crews of the twenty-two longboats putting their backs into it, gained with each minute, steadily closing the gap.

Hull turned to Strand. “Have all gun crews load. Get ready.”

“Aye, sir.”

Strand turned to shout his orders when the first blossoms of white smoke spewed from the muzzles of the four cannon in the bow of the Shannon, and Hull held his breath. Too far—too far—she’s out of range!

Five hundred yards short of the Constitution, four geysers of water leaped fifteen feet into the air, and a moment later the sound of the four cannon blasts rolled past the frigate. Through his telescope, Hull watched the gun crews on the British ship wheel the cannon back while four men rammed the soaking wet swabs down the barrels to kill all sparks before the next four men rammed the powder in to reload.

Hull turned to Strand and Dunson, face set, a mix of fear and defiance in his eyes. “We have a choice. We can fight and risk the crew and the ship, or we can surrender and save the lives of our men.”

The navigator broke in. “Sir, may I make a recommendation?”

Hull looked into his face. Dunson was too young to have experienced battle at sea in the war for independence. He had come on board as a volunteer while Hull was refitting and resupplying in the Chesapeake River six weeks earlier. He had been quiet, watching everything, a constant unassuming presence, responding quickly and with amazing accuracy when asked for advice on any questions of navigation.

“Yes, Mister Dunson, what is it?”

Dunson’s voice was steady, intense, controlled. “At this moment we are in waters that sound at not more than fourteen fathoms. Running north, that reduces to about twelve fathoms, then back to fourteen, and holds at that depth for nearly one hundred miles.”

He stopped and Hull stared for a moment in puzzlement. “Go on.”

Dunson pointed over the stern at the oncoming Shannon. “I think we can outrun the British by kedging, sir—at least stay far enough ahead that their cannon can’t reach us.”

For an instant Hull did not move, and then he exclaimed, “Kedging! Of course!” He turned to Strand. “Get all the hawsers we can spare tied together in two continuous lines and get the main anchor and the reserve anchor into the nearest longboats!”

Strand turned on his heel and was gone at a run, down onto the main deck, shouting orders, watching while startled seamen leaped to search for hawsers, and began tying them together, end to end, coiling them into two gigantic lines as they went. Then he grabbed his horn and ran to the bow of the ship to bellow to the two strings of longboats ahead, connected to the lines towing the ship, “Hello, the longboats! The nearest four! Return to the ship. Return to the ship!”

The four longboats nearest the Constitution released themselves from the lines and turned about with the sweating seamen on board pulling strong on their oars, puzzlement showing clear on their faces at the peculiar order to return. Dunson was standing beside Hull, both watching, first the Shannon, then their own crews in the four longboats as they came alongside. The nearest crew chief cupped his hand to shout to Strand, “What’s the reason to call us back?”

“Kedging,” Strand answered. “Come alongside. We’re going to lower the anchors into the first two longboats and a line into the other two. You’re going ahead as far as the line will allow to drop the anchor and we’ll pull the ship to it.”

Instantly the crews of all four longboats nodded their heads and came alongside, two to receive the heavy anchors, the other two to receive the great coils of hawsers tied together to form two lines more than half a mile in length. Then all four boats turned, and the crews strained to race forward ahead of the frigate while Hull and Dunson stood on the quarterdeck judging speed and distance, first between them and the Shannon behind them, and then between them and their own longboats ahead of them. The single question had once again risen to the top: could they stay far enough ahead of the British squadron to avoid its cannon?

They watched with held breath as the longboats reached the end of their tethers, and the first one dumped its anchor overboard. The crew on the Constitution waited one minute for the anchor to sink fourteen fathoms and hit the bottom of the sea, and then twelve men leaned into the four arms of the winch anchored to the deck and began reeling in the tether rope, leg muscles knotted as they drove with all their strength. The tether rope came singing tight and the frigate suddenly plowed ahead, gaining speed as the winch groaned and the drum turned to reel in the rope. When the first kedge was under the bow of the ship, the longboats assigned to it were there waiting to take the anchor and the line back out, while half a mile ahead, the two longboats assigned to the second kedge dropped the second anchor, and the crew on the winch aboard the ship began reeling in the second line. The rotation had begun: first one kedge, then the other, to maintain a continuous towing. The Constitution slowly began to widen the gap between it and the Shannon, despite the fact that twenty-two British longboats were straining to catch her.       

The sun was one hour above the eastern horizon when a whisper of breeze fluttered the sails, stopped, then rose again, and held. Hull trimmed his sails to catch all the wind he could, and watched while the British did the same. With her twenty-two longboats towing, and wind in her sails, the Shannon held pace with the Constitution, and then Hull thought he saw them gaining. For half a minute he stood with narrowed eyes, then turned to give his orders to the four gun crews at the stern of the ship, two on the main deck, two in his own quarters with the gun muzzles thrust out of the open windows.

“Load!”

Sweaty hands rolled the guns backwards, ladled the black gunpowder down the muzzles, then the straw, the cannonball, more straw, primed the touch-hole, and held the linstocks poised, ready, waiting for the order.

“Fire!” Hull ordered, and the four guns bucked and roared. For several seconds the white cloud of gun smoke hung in the dead air and then began to thin and rise. Half the crew watched with held breath, knowing the distance was too great, hoping only that the British would understand the warning: if you come within gun range, we’ll fight!

The four geysers of water leaped short of the Shannon, while Hull, Strand, and Dunson, and most of their crew, watched, scarcely breathing. The British ship began to fall back, but her companion, the Guerriere, changed course to the west. It was clear the British squadron meant to close the American ship in a box.

For over two hours the cluster of ships moved north, longboats towing, kedging, while the seamen stood fast on the ropes overhead waiting to trim their sails to catch every wisp of wind possible. The sun was high when the first promise of a small, lasting breeze fluttered the flags and the ships all changed their sails to catch it. The moment the ships could respond to the helm, the captains called in their longboats. Hull, on the Constitution, ordered his held suspended on ropes above the water, to be available for instant use should the breeze fail again. All crews on all ships were at the rails, silent, intense, each calculating when, or if, the British could catch the American frigate. There was a mounting sense of a classic sea-chase on all six vessels as it continued, the British smelling blood, the Americans determined to elude them.

Midmorning, the gun ports on the starboard side of the Guerriere belched their white smoke, and sixteen geyers erupted on the port side of the Constitution, four hundred yards short.

Hull and Strand and Dunson watched with one common thought. She’s testing the range. They mean to force us to take a stand and fight.

Abruptly Dunson turned to Hull. “Sir, I believe we could add a little speed if we wet the sails and lightened our load.”

“Lighten the load how?”

“Use some of our drinking water to wet the sails. Dump some of it overboard. I think we can make a friendly port within five days. Hold back just enough to keep the men alive and dump the rest. Over two thousand gallons. Eight tons. It will increase our speed by about two knots.”

Hull looked at Strand, and Strand nodded. Hull turned back to Dunson. “You’re certain about your five-day estimate?”

Dunson’s expression did not waver. “Certain. Boston. We can make Boston in five days.”

Minutes later wooden buckets with rope handles were being passed up the rope ladders to seamen waiting to empty them onto the sails to capture every slight hint of wind. The crew watched in silent amazement while six of them manned the pump handles, and they watched their drinking water spray overboard to disappear in the salt sea. They wiped at their bearded mouths, and they looked at their captain, and then they understood.

The Constitution picked up speed, and then something undefined, something powerful, crept into the entire four-hundred-fifty-man crew. They stood ready with the water buckets and sent them dripping up the chain of men to those standing on the ropes, leaned against the spars, waiting, and they kept every square inch of the sails wet. When the wind failed, they were lowering the longboats before Hull’s orders came loud, and they were into the boats and straining to kedge and tow with every pound and every ounce of energy they possessed. A light was in their eyes, and their jaws were set, determined. We can do it! We can beat the British! We can!

On deck, Dunson did not ask permission. He jerked off his tunic and tossed it onto the nearest hatch cover, and took a place in a line, passing the dripping buckets upward. Within ten seconds Strand was there beside him, sweating, watching, shoulder to shoulder, officers with their seamen. In that moment, Hull knew. We’re going to win this race!

It was nearing noon when Hull saw the Belvidera draw ahead of the Shannon and lower her anchor into a longboat, followed by a heap of hawsers into a second one. He lowered his telescope. Kedging. Towing and kedging. They may come within gun range.

While he watched, both the Shannon and the Belvidera slowed and then held steady, just yards out of cannon range. Hull studied them for a time before a hint of a smile came. They’re afraid of our stern guns. They’re waiting for the others to box us in. And that isn’t going to happen.

The day wore on under the heat of a late July sun, with the ships maintaining their interval as they moved north. On board the Belvidera, Captain Richard Byron watched the deck crew of the Constitution like a hawk, studying their every move as they used every device known to seafaring men to maintain speed and position on a windless sea of glass. He saw sweating, exhausted men lay down on the decks and sleep near their stations while the next crew took their place. Weary gun crews slept with their backs leaned against their cannon carriages when the next crew replaced them. The officers had stripped off their tunics with the gold bars on the shoulders and were right in among their men, sweating, rowing, working the bucket chain up on the ropes and spars. A grim smile flickered for a moment, and a look of admiration came into his eyes. Flawless. The officers mixed right down among the seamen—every man refusing to leave his station—sleeping on the decks—how does one defeat such men?

The day wore on with seamen, both British and American, straining at the oars, rowing, kedging, passing buckets of water up into the sails with every whisper of breeze that might help. Down in the galley of the Constitution the cooks prepared food that could be carried up onto the main deck, and came from their kingdom down below, up into the blazing sun to serve it. The sun set. Twilight, then deep dusk, and finally full darkness came to change the race into a series of five sets of running lights pursuing a single set that doggedly refused to be caught. Dawn came, then sunrise, with the American frigate using every stitch of sail she had, still kedging, still with her longboats out towing, and the British behind, just out of gun range, still unable to gain the four hundred yards that could have forced a fight.

The sun was three hours high when the shout came down from the crow’s nest of the Belvidera.

“There! Nor’east! An American merchantman coming straight in!”

Captain Richard Byron came to a startled standstill, and for long seconds peered through his telescope before his arm shot up to point.

“There she is!” He turned to his first mate. “Quickly. Lower the Union Jack and raise an American flag! We must decoy that ship into us. Maybe the Constitution will come to her defense!”

Within three minutes the American stars and stripes was dangling from the mainmast of the British Belvidera, the only British ship within sight of the American merchantman, and Captain Byron was watching, waiting to see if his deception would succeed.

On board the Constitution, the sunburned seaman in the crow’s nest had called down to Captain Isaac Hull, “Nor’east! American. Merchantman.” Hull swung around to watch the oncoming, unarmed ship with the words running in his mind—Veer off—veer off—can’t you see the British flags?—veer off.

Then Hull turned about and watched in stunned silence at the sight of the American flag going up the mainmast of the Belvidera. In one second, understanding hit him, and he gaped. Decoy! They’re trying to decoy that merchantman.

He jerked around to bark orders to Strand, but he was too far down the deck among the gun crews. Then Hull saw Dunson already frantically undoing the figure-eight windings of the flag rope on the mainmast. Under Dunson’s arm was a British Union Jack flag, and while Hull watched, Dunson lowered the American flag and unsnapped it from the cable, then mounted the British flag and instantly started it up the mainmast as fast as his hands could work. The British Union Jack hit the top of the mainmast, and below, Hull, Dunson, Strand, and every man on deck froze as they peered at the oncoming American merchantman, waiting to see if she understood.

The heavy freighter, loaded and riding low in the water, hesitated, then stopped. On board the Constitution the entire crew and all officers raised fists and a shout at the sight of the big vessel turning east out into the open waters of the Atlantic, well out of range of the British squadron, and they watched as she steadily grew smaller and disappeared.

On board the Belvidera, Captain Byron slowly shook his head, ruefully grinning. They could not have performed better!

The day wore on with the American crew sweating in the pounding heat of the sun, refusing to leave their duty posts, snatching sleep on deck, taking their rotation in the back-breaking work of rowing the longboats on the tow lines and the kedging lines, the officers with their tunics off, sweat dripping as they worked among their men. Sunset came with the ships still locked in place, the British no nearer nor farther than they had been at sunrise. The sun was reaching for the western horizon when the Constitution slowly began to distance the five British pursuers. By evening mess the gap had extended to nearly four miles, and Hull called for his navigator, John Dunson.

“How many more miles do we have at fourteen fathoms?”

“At least forty, sir.”

Hull gestured to the heavens. “I feel a squall coming.”

Dunson nodded. “I agree, sir. Within half an hour. If we’re careful, we can use a squall to gain distance.”

“I agree.”

At fifteen minutes before seven o’clock pm, the squall rolled in, and with it came gusting winds and rain in sheets that drenched everything on the top deck of the frigate. Grinning men with water running from their hair and beards and clothing waited, poised, until the last second before they pulled all the longboats and kedging boats in, and the blustering winds billowed the dripping sails of the Constitution, and she leaped ahead.

Behind them, Captain Byron once again shook his head in admiration. Used every second they had and then caught the squall squarely—I don’t think we have a chance.

It took minutes for the squall to reach the British, but in those minutes the American frigate had gained more than half a mile on them. The squall held until full darkness, then moved on to leave the ships soaked and dripping beneath countless stars in the black velvet overhead. The only difference was, the Constitution had gained an invaluable lead, and she was not going to relinquish it back to her pursuers. All night the Americans held their frantic pace of rowing and kedging, passing water buckets up into the rigging to get every inch they could out of each passing draft of breeze. By six o’clock, with the sun rising in the east, the British ships were but faint flecks far behind the Constitution, with the Belvidera leading, then the Shannon, Guerierre, Aeolus, and Africa following. Slowly, one by one, the British ships dropped from sight.

On board the Belvidera, Captain Byron drew a deep breath and turned to his first mate. “Break off the chase. Let them go.”

A wistful look crossed the man’s face. “Aye, sir.” He started to turn to carry out the order when Byron stopped him.

“Commend our men. They’ve done well. Just tell them those Americans earned it. They were superb.”

On board the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull drew his watch from his tunic pocket. It was fifteen minutes past eight am. He drew a deep breath and turned to Strand and Dunson. In the entire engagement, none of the three men had slept more than a total of eight hours. They were unshaven, sweated, bone-weary, rumpled, and grinning.

“Gentlemen,” Hull said quietly, “I believe the British have abandoned the chase. Mister Strand, tell the men. We’ll hold this pace for one more hour and then we’ll fall back to regular routine. Tell them their performance was . . . remarkable. Every man will receive a commendation. And extra rations.”

Strand bobbed his head. “Aye, sir.”

Hull turned to Dunson. “We’re on short water rations. When will we make Boston?”

“Tomorrow morning at about this time, sir, if the wind holds. Our water ration will get us there.”

“Very good. Carry on.”

Not one man in the crew of the Constitution could recall a feeling on board any ship in their experience to compare with that which had crept into them. They had met the best the British had to offer—five to one—and they had come together as one man in a chase that had no equal in history, and they had won! They had sweated and strained together, sleeping and eating at their posts on deck, with their officers stripping away their tunics and becoming one of them—every man had contributed to do the impossible. They stood a little taller and talked a little louder and laughed too much. No matter who else did or did not hear of it, they were the ones, and they would have that memory for the rest of their lives. They were the crew the British could not catch.

They settled back into their duties, and in late dusk the call came from the crow’s nest, “East’nor’east. Sail.”

On the quarterdeck, Hull raised his telescope, then lowered it. “Can’t tell her flag. I think we should find out if she’s British or American. Change course to northwest until we know if she’s an enemy.”

Through the night they tracked with the ship. In the gray before sunrise they closed with her, close enough to identify her as an American merchantman. The Constitution corrected course to northeast toward the Massachusetts coast, with all canvas out.

In the late afternoon they again sighted an unidentified ship, large, heavy, low in the water, but were unable to read her flag.

Hull turned to Dunson. “Do we have enough water for one more day?”

Dunson reflected for a moment. “We’ll be on short ration, but we can make it last one more day. We’re half a day out of Boston right now.”

Hull considered. “We’ll have this one identified by midnight, then turn back due east.”

It was shortly before past midnight when Hull gave orders to Strand. “Get the gun crews ready on the starboard side. We don’t have time to wait for morning. I’m going alongside that ship now to identify her. If she’s British, we’ll know shortly. If they fire, don’t wait for my order. Fire back.”

“Aye, sir.”

In full blackness, Hull brought his frigate alongside the larger ship and raised his horn.

“Captain Isaac Hull. USS Constitution. Request permission to board for purposes of identification.”

The answer came back with an unmistakable New England inflection. “We are the Cornelius. Commercial. Dunson & Weems, shipping out of Boston.”

Hull turned to John Dunson. “You know anything about Dunson & Weems out of Boston?”

John was grinning. “I know them. My father and Billy Weems own it. That’s Captain Bertram Walters. Can’t miss that voice.”

Hull chuckled out loud, then turned back to the big merchantman. “Identification accepted. I extend a warning. We were pursued by a British squadron of five armed frigates. They abandoned pursuit yesterday, south of us. Watch.”

“Understood. If you are the Constitution, do you have a navigator on board named John Dunson?”

“We do.”

“Greetings to John from all of us. And his father.”

Laughter rolled out across the gap in the darkness between the two ships, from both sides. John ducked and shook his head in embarrassment, then joined in the ringing laughter while those nearest him clapped him on the back.

The merchantman continued on her course, and Hull turned to his navigator.

“Mister Dunson, take us home.”

“Aye, sir.”

John took his place beside the helmsman, spent a moment taking his bearing from the stars, and began giving his instructions—“East by northeast—due east—east by southeast—due east” guiding the frigate through the reefs and shoals through the night toward the coast of Massachusetts. At dawn they picked up the lighthouse marking the northernmost tip of Cape Cod and angled eastward, in a direct line for Boston harbor. It was shortly past noon when the Constitution tied up at the dock designated for United States gunboats on the Boston waterfront.

Captain Isaac Hull gave orders that the crew could take shore leave in rotation, and gave John Dunson direct orders for a six-day leave, to report back for duty on August first.

Hull turned to Strand. “Would you go ashore and find contractors to resupply us? Water, flour, salt pork, hardtack—the things we’ll need for our next cruise? I have some things to do on board until you return. We’ll go together tomorrow to make the purchases.”

“Aye, sir.”

Strand left the ship, and Hull remained on the quarterdeck long enough to be certain all matters were under control before he went to his cabin. He stepped in and stopped short. He had forgotten the two long, heavy cannon set squarely in the center of his small quarters with their muzzles out the rear windows.

I’ll get those moved later, he thought. He sat down at his tiny desk, which had been pushed to one side, and drew out the ship’s log. He opened to the page with the latest writing, and for a time sat still, pondering how to write the conclusion to the wildest sea chase he had ever known. Then he plucked up his quill and for a long time sat with the sounds of its scratching his only companion.

On deck, with his seaman’s bag packed and on his shoulder, John Dunson thumped down the gangplank to the heavy, black planking of the dock, glanced up once at the familiar sight of countless seagulls and terns and grebes scolding overhead, and trotted east through the heat of the half-deserted waterfront to the familiar office with the sign DUNSON & WEEMS. He pushed through the door and dropped his heavy canvas bag on the countertop. Inside, Matthew and Billy raised their heads from their desks, and both instantly came to their feet to stride quickly to meet him.

Matthew spoke first, relief and a question in his eyes. “You’re home! Too early! Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

Billy reached to shake his hand. “We’ve missed you. Run into trouble?”

John nodded. “A little. Is Laura all right? The baby?”

Matthew smiled. “Both fine. The baby’s cutting more teeth.” He paused for a moment. “A little trouble? What happened?”

“We met a British squadron off the New Jersey coast. Barnegat Bay. Five of them. All frigates, all armed. Two hundred eight cannon against our forty-four. About five to one, both in ships and firepower.”

Instantly Matthew tensed.

John continued. “Captain Hull—Isaac Hull—decided saving the ship and crew was more critical to the U.S. Navy than losing both, so we turned and made a run. Nine days. Most of it just out of gun range.” A grin spread on John’s face. “Got quite exciting. They quit. We won the race. We came on in to get water and resupply.”

Matthew’s brow drew down in question. “You ran out of water?”

“No. We dumped eight tons to lighten the load.”

“The race was that close?”

“It was close.” John chuckled. “We were towing and kedging and soaking down the sails most of the time to catch whatever wind came our way. They were doing the same. It turned out our crew was just a little more . . . inspired . . . than theirs. If they had caught us, we wouldn’t have had a chance.”

Billy was smiling, shaking his head. “Inspired? Sounds more like frightened. Scared.”

“Whatever it was, our crew beat theirs. It was pretty tense.”

Matthew said. “We heard the Constitution was in the harbor. I’m sure the word got to both Laura and Mother. Take your bag and go on home. Stop at Mother’s on the way and let her know you’re all right.”

John bobbed his head. “I’ll be back tomorrow to make a full report. Good to be home.”

He shouldered his seaman’s bag and walked back out the door into the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun and turned east, toward home.

In his quarters on board the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull continued his careful work on the ship’s log, pausing to remember and record the detail. He came to the closing lines, wrote them slowly, then set the quill down and read them to himself.

“. . . the unwavering obedience of the crew—the ingenuity and selflessness of the officers—the remarkable contribution of our navigator John Dunson—all require that every man aboard the ship receive a commendation which I shall gratefully write . . .”

He closed the big ledger, rose, smiled at the incongruity of two cannon in his small quarters, tucked the ship’s log under his arm, and walked out on deck to the bos’n’s mate standing at the gangplank.

“I will be gone about one hour. You are in command until my return.”

“Aye, sir.”

It took Captain Hull fifteen minutes to locate the Boston newspaper office. Inside he asked for and was introduced to the owner and chief editor. Behind the closed office door, he laid the ledger on the desk, amid a disorganized clutter of papers.

“Sir,” Hull began, “I am Captain of the USS Constitution. My name is Isaac Hull. I have a ship’s log here. In it is what I believe to be the most remarkable story in written history of a sea chase. Would you be interested?”

On the open waters of the Atlantic, far to the south, British captain Richard Byron sat at his desk, sweating in the July heat of his small quarters on the Belvidera. Before him was the ship’s log, with the ink still wet from his last entry. He laid down his quill and silently went over his last sentence.

“The American crew performed to perfection. Their escape from the best we had to offer was earned. Their effort was in every detail, elegant.”

He looked at the word elegant and for a time pondered. Then he closed the ledger and put it back into its drawer. He could find no word better suited to the need than the word elegant.

The following day, in the late afternoon, the Boston newspaper published its front-page article of the feat of the Americans, quoting liberally from the log of the USS Constitution. Within seventy-two hours the story of the chase had swept every newspaper in every major city in the United States. The story became the talk of the nation. The Constitution and her crew became instant legends. The intrepid navigator—John Dunson—the one who saved the ship by suggesting kedging to his captain and recommending dumping eight tons of water to lighten the load and then running a British flag aloft to save an American merchantman, was the talk of Boston. The office of Dunson & Weems was flooded with mail and seamen and officers who came to shake his hand and congratulate him.

On the sixth day after their arrival in Boston, John Dunson strode up the gangplank of the Constitution. First mate Strand stood at the top, on the deck of the ship, with a ship’s roster in his hand.

“Reporting for duty,” John said.

A big grin creased Strand’s large, homely face as he checked off the name, John Dunson, Navigator. “Nice seeing you again. We sail with the tide, about four o’clock in the morning. Think you can get us out of Boston Harbor?”

Notes

On July 17, 1812, at about 2:00 pm, Captain Isaac Hull, in command of the USS Constitution, a forty-four cannon American navy frigate, was four leagues, or about 12 miles, off the New Jersey coast, east of Barnegat Bay. Isaac Hull was the nephew of Army General Hull assigned to command Fort Detroit in the Michigan Territory. Isaac Hull had resupplied his ship in the Chesapeake River just weeks earlier. His vessel was designed by the most celebrated shipwright of his time, a New England Quaker named Joshua Humphreys. Many foreign governments, including England, had sought the services of Humphreys, who chose to share them with the United States. A Humphreys frigate was the best of its kind—larger, faster, and stronger than any other. On that day in July, Hull encountered five British frigates whose names and captains and gun count were as described herein. Two of the British captains were the finest in the British navy, and their frigates were excellent, but no match for the Humphreys frigates. Recognizing that he had no chance in a fight with five British frigates, whose combined firepower was about five times his own, Captain Hull ordered his ship to turn and outrun them. The British came in hot pursuit, and the race began, as described. Captain Hull used every device known to seamen in his retreat, including towing, kedging, dumping excess water to lighten his ship, and soaking the sails to catch all possible wind.

John Dunson is a fictional character, used herein for the purpose of maintaining the story line. The crewman who suggested kedging to Captain Hull was not John Dunson, but actually Lieutenant Charles Morris. The pursuit continued basically as herein described, with the American frigate able to stay just out of gun range the entire time, with crewmen sleeping and eating on deck, exerting themselves to exhaustion to maintain their lead, and the officers mixing with the ordinary seamen in the harsh work.

An American merchantman appeared, and the British attempted to decoy it within gun range by raising an American flag to trick the merchantman into thinking they were American ships; however, the Constitution foiled the ploy by raising a British flag to warn the merchantman away. On the night of July 18, the British ship Guerriere, commanded by Captain James Richard Dacres, drew near the Constitution, leaving the other four British ships behind. The Guerrierre slowed, and her four companion ships came closer. Captain Dacres saw their lights, but did not know who they were in the dark and signaled to them to identify themselves. They made no return signal, and he presumed them to be a squadron of American ships under command of American Captain Rodgers.

He withdrew and waited until morning, when he discovered they were his own ships. They had failed to return his signal in the night, presuming he knew who they were. He was furious and later demanded a court-martial to clear his name. Hull had two heavy cannon brought to the stern of his ship and tore out some of the railing to give them free access to fire at anything behind. He had two other heavy cannon brought into his tiny quarters with the muzzles thrust out the windows for added firepower at the British behind them, should it be necessary. The race continued, until finally a rain squall passed over the ships, giving the Americans enough wind to pull away from the British. The morning of July 20, the British withdrew from the chase. On his return to Boston for resupplying his ship, Hull sighted two separate merchantmen and paused to investigate both. Each was found to be American. Hull arrived in Boston on July 26. The entire episode appeared in newspapers throughout the United States, to become one of the most celebrated events of the War of 1812. The British Navy did in fact describe the actions of the Americans as “elegant.”

See Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 47–50; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 91–93; Wills, James Madison, pp. 112–114.

For a painting of Captain Isaac Hull, see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 95.