Washington, D.C.

February 7, 1813

CHAPTER XIX

* * *

The President will see you now.”

John Armstrong, the newly appointed secretary of war, stood quickly and strode into the library of President James Madison, leather satchel under his arm. Aging, balding, strongly built, strong face, large, penetrating eyes, nose tending to be slightly bulbous, he walked with the certainty of a man with unwavering confidence in himself, his views, his place in the affairs of the United States government, his ultimate ambition to become president, and the fact that his long-standing and well-known differences with Secretary of State James Monroe had been vindicated by his recent appointment to the office of secretary of war. Since his arrival in Washington, D.C., three days earlier, in a whirlwind of energy he had charmed, coerced, and cajoled the control of army patronage from Congress, made much of his reorganization plan for the entire War Department, and seized direction of the war away from James Monroe. After all, he was the “Old Soldier” who had written the book Hints to Young Generals from an Old Soldier, which, right or wrong, had catapulted him into the position of a leading authority on the business of war. No matter the “Old Soldier” had gained his experience thirty-five years earlier in the war for independence. No matter that the office of secretary of war had been first offered to both William H. Crawford and Henry Dearborn, but each had refused. Armstrong’s sense of politics assured him that success in the office would give him footing to seek the presidency, and he was resolved that simple success was not acceptable. His success was going to be spectacular.

James Madison rose from his chair and walked around the great desk, smiling, congenial, hand extended.

“Secretary Armstrong! Thank you for coming. I’m aware of the . . . vigor you’ve demonstrated since your arrival here, what, three days ago?” Armstrong reached to shake the president’s hand. “Yes, sir.”

Madison sobered and wasted no time. “I take it you are prepared for tomorrow’s cabinet meeting?”

“I am.” Armstrong’s eyes were glowing.

“Good. Take a seat. May I give you a brief synopsis of where we are politically?”

Madison did not wait for a response. As both men took seats, Madison began, and Armstrong could see the quiet, controlled fear in the eyes of the small man.

“The war campaign for 1812 did not go well. You know we lost Fort Detroit and the battle at Queenston Heights and Fort George. In November, Dearborn tried to redeem the entire Canadian effort by attempting to take Fort Erie. He failed and ordered Smyth to attack. Smyth printed and distributed several bombastic warnings to the British of the calamities he would bring down on them if they did not surrender, which the British saw as comical at best. Smyth made two token attempts to take Fort Erie, failed both times, and simply disbanded his army and returned home.”

Madison stopped long enough to see Armstrong nod understanding, then went on.

“As a result, our Republican party paid the price. In the last election we lost seats in both the House and Senate. We still have a majority, but we lost twelve percent in the House and four percent in the Senate. And we lost our majority in three states—Massachusetts, New Jersey, and Maryland. Add those three to Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Delaware that were Federalist to begin with, and we now hold a bare majority of states.”

Again Madison paused, watching Armstrong, then went on.

“You’re aware that in the recent election in New York, our Republican senator John Smith lost to Federalist Rufus King. You are also aware that on April twenty-seventh—just seventy-nine days from now—New York will return to the polls to elect a governor. If the same forces that got Rufus King elected are able to get a Federalist elected governor, we will have lost one more very important state. That could become a disaster. Do you understand?”

Armstrong was clear, firm. “I do, sir.”

Madison sat back for a moment, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke he was making small gestures with his hands. “To give some vital support to our Republicans in New York we very badly need to show some strength—some initiative on the Canadian front. We need to bring to the whole country some inspiring news about some victories.”

Armstrong was nodding vigorously.

Madison smiled woodenly. “Now, sir, I will be happy to hear the plan you propose delivering at the cabinet meeting tomorrow to accomplish this.”

Armstrong stood, quickly unbuckled his satchel, and drew out a sheaf of papers. He laid them on the leading edge of the desk and began to speak as he unfolded a large map. As Madison rose to stand over the map, Armstrong squared it with the compass, then tapped his finger firmly on the St. Lawrence River where it was marked “Montreal,” midway between Quebec and the east end of Lake Ontario.

“For some time now the administration has been aware that the key to taking Canada is seizing control of the Great Lakes. If we intend driving the British from Canada altogether, this is the place we should start. Take Montreal and place fifty cannon batteries on the riverbanks, and we can stop anything the British send up the St. Lawrence to sustain their military on the Great Lakes. Every British outpost, every British fort, will be trapped without communication or support and could eventually be taken systematically, in order!”

Armstrong paused, intensely watching Madison for a change of expression. There was none, and he went on.

“To take Montreal would require us to assemble a large military force in the state of New York, train it, equip it, and move it north on the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence, then west to Montreal. At the same time we would move what gunboats are available east on the St. Lawrence to take up positions facing Montreal. A coordinated attack—the army on land, the navy on the river—would bring Montreal under our control.”

Again he paused, aware of the growing sense of frustration and impatience in Madison. He took a breath and continued.

“At best, it would take the entire summer to accomplish such a plan. And we do not have the entire summer. It is seventy-nine days until the pivotal election that will decide whether the Republicans lose the state of New York to the Federalists.”

He stopped, then spaced his words for dramatic impact.

“We must have a military victory that will help swing the New York election to the Republicans, and we must have it not later than the first day of April. It must reach all newspapers in Albany and New York City and in other towns in time to persuade the voters that the Republicans and this administration have turned the course of the war in our favor, and can win it.”

For the first time, Armstrong saw faint hope in Madison’s eyes. Armstrong shifted his finger on the map, following the St. Lawrence west to the point where it joins Lake Ontario, to stop at the place marked Kingston.

“Taking Montreal is the most strategically important objective we can undertake to defeat the British, but at this moment the strategy of the war must yield to the political realities. Before the New York election, the Republican party must bring to this country a victory that will lift the spirit of the nation—revive a sense of patriotism—restore confidence that we can rise above our mistakes of last year and win!”

Madison cut in. “How do you propose we accomplish that?”

Armstrong tapped his finger on the map. “Take Kingston!”

Madison’s forehead drew down in question. “Take the British base of naval operations on the Great Lakes?”

“Exactly! At this moment it is poorly defended. Vulnerable. Land our army on both sides while our gunboats engage their shore batteries, and attack the naval base from both sides and the rear. The meager force they have there now would surrender within twenty-four hours or be completely destroyed. If such a victory could be announced in this country in the first week of April, the election would be assured in our favor.”

“If we do take Kingston, what is our next step?”

Hastily Armstrong traced with his finger. “York. Here. At the other end of Lake Ontario. Then on to Fort Erie. Here. On the British side of the Niagara River. Across from Buffalo. Once we have Kingston, York and Fort Erie will quickly fall. That will give us the political advantage we must have immediately. We can follow that with a military victory at Montreal that will give us control of the Great Lakes. And once the Great Lakes are ours, the British hold on Canada is doomed.”

Madison nodded, and Armstrong saw the light coming into his eyes. He went on.

“You remember that last September orders were given to Captain Isaac Chauncey to assume control of American naval forces on Erie and Ontario, and to do whatever necessary to bring them under our control.”

Madison reflected for a moment. “Yes. I remember. Chauncey is a younger man, but capable. Am I right?”

“Yes. He has spent the winter gathering ships wherever he could, and getting others built. He has them moored at Sacketts Harbor, here, on Lake Ontario, and at Presque Isle, here, on Lake Erie. He also contacted and brought in a twenty-seven-year-old naval officer named Oliver H. Perry—a very promising young officer. He’s ordered Perry to take control of our Lake Erie forces while Chauncey continues with Lake Ontario. There’s a third man Chauncey has included. Adam Dunson. Dunson’s a middle-aged man of experience in commercial shipping. He’s commanded commercial ships on the Great Lakes many times in the past twenty years for a company named Dunson & Weems out of Boston. Knows every port on the lakes. Intimately. Chauncey needs Dunson’s experience.”

Madison asked, “Is Dunson going to command one of our naval gunboats?”

Armstrong shook his head. “No. He brought his own ship, the Margaret. His own crew. He converted one of his commercial ships to a gunboat—thirty-eight heavy cannon—and has offered it—himself, his crew, and his gunboat—as a volunteer.”

Madison suddenly straightened, eyes wide. “Did you say Adam Dunson?”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Not him, but I know Matthew Dunson! Matthew Dunson and Billy Weems own that shipping company. Matthew is one of my most trusted confidants! If Adam Dunson is of that family, Chauncey has chosen well!”

Armstrong went on. “This entire offensive is to commence the first day of April. Twenty-two days from now. We don’t have one day, one hour, to waste.”

Madison stared in question. “April first?”

Armstrong nodded vigorously. “April first.”

“The ice?” Madison asked.

“It will be far enough gone that it should not be a hindrance. What’s left of it we can handle.” Armstrong paused for an instant, then continued. “Now, I have arranged for the two prominent newspapers—the Albany Argus and the National Advocate—to prepare news articles for release the first week in April. The articles will trumpet our successes on both the lakes—Erie and Ontario.”

Madison peered into Armstrong’s face in question. “Odd that you’re preparing news articles before the event. What becomes of all this if the campaign fails? The Republican party would be the laughingstock.”

Armstrong passed it off casually. “The plan will work. Even if we experience problems, the election will be completed before it becomes an issue.”

Madison straightened at the terrible risk Armstrong was proposing and raised a hand as if to speak, then dropped it and remained silent, caught between his inner sense of right and wrong, and the terrible need to be reelected to the presidency.

Armstrong went on. “The man I propose to take charge of this entire campaign is General Henry Dearborn.”

Madison recoiled. “Dearborn? After his failure at Detroit and Niagara and Montreal last fall? He very nearly lost the war for us! A total disaster!”

Armstrong paused for a moment to let Madison settle. “I’m well aware. The sole reason I suggest him is that in my opinion there is no one else available right now who would accept the position. Do you have someone else in mind?”

Madison turned and paced a few steps, then returned to the desk, torment in his eyes. “Dearborn.”

“Good. The only remaining formality is to have your approval of this plan at the earliest time possible. You intend presenting it at the cabinet meeting tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. You will present it, not me.”

Armstrong bobbed his head. “Very good, sir. I shall be prepared.” He folded his map, assembled his papers, slipped them all back into his satchel, bid goodbye to Madison, and walked out, leaving the president standing alone, hands clasped behind his back, head tipped forward as he stared at the polished hardwood floor, struggling with the rising fear that the entire campaign was too fragile.

Too many assumptions. Too many uncontrollable contingencies. What if the ice on the lakes holds until the end of April? What will the British do when they see the buildup of American naval forces on the Lakes? What of this twenty-seven-year-old Commodore Perry?—too young—too young. What of Adam Dunson—unproven—he knows the Lakes, but what will he do in battle? Dearborn! What will the country say when we put Dearborn in command?—the one who led us into that disaster last fall? Newspaper articles to be published before the event, announcing great and glorious victories? If those articles appear and then Dearborn bungles the whole campaign, who will ever again trust the Republican party!

Half a dozen times throughout the day Madison rose from behind his desk to pace while he battled with his growing fears. Chauncey—capable? Perry—too young? Dunson—untried in battle. The British—what will they do? Dearborn! The worst of it!

It was late when he turned out the lamps and went to his bed to spend a sleepless night tossing and turning while the darkness played havoc with his mind.

Morning broke bleak with ice on the Potomac, a blanket of frost covering Washington, D.C., and a dull gray overcast. Madison’s cabinet arrived on the porch one at a time, bundled in capes, vapors rising from their breath. They hung their winter wraps in the cloak room and took their places at the long, oval, polished oak table in the luxurious room with paintings and murals and gold lamps on the walls, where Armstrong had placed maps and a written outline of his war campaign for 1813. At nine o’clock Madison entered the room, called them to order, made a perfunctory statement of agenda, and turned the meeting into the eager hands of John Armstrong.

His presentation was crisp and precise, but he was not five minutes into the meat of it before every man at the table had studied the map and the outline, and was caught up in silent skepticism, and then in abject pessimism at the growing number of dangerous contingencies that became all too apparent. Debate opened, and the challenges came, frank and strong. Armstrong answered, dodging and turning, but in the end it all came down to the simple question that was the foundation on which life in Washington, D.C., finally came to rest: What must I do to get reelected and maintain my power?

Every concern, every objection to the plan would fade and die if the men gathered in the luxury of the Executive Mansion cabinet room could believe it would permit them to remain in office.

Very artfully Armstrong reached his blunt conclusion. “The New York election is seventy-eight days away. If any man in this room can conceive of a better plan to swing it to the Republican party, now is the time to lay it on the table.”

A tense silence continued for ten seconds before Armstrong concluded.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” He turned to Madison. “Mister President, I have nothing further.”

Madison said, “Gentlemen, your reactions? Do you approve Mister Armstrong’s proposal?”

Murmurings were exchanged, then the men quieted.

Madison stood. “Very well. Mister Armstrong, start immediately. Notify General Dearborn of his appointment to take command of the campaign. Time is against us. This meeting is concluded. Please leave all papers and maps on the table.”

There was little talk among the cabinet members as they rose and took their leave while Armstrong gathered up his maps and paperwork and buckled them into his satchel, while Madison watched, silent, caught up in his own reservations.

“Mister President, I’ll notify General Dearborn of his appointment today.”

“Thank you.”

In the cloak room, Armstrong buckled his winter cape about his shoulders and set his tricorn on his head. His boot heels clicked a steady cadence in the long hallway as he made his way to the heavy door. He scarcely noticed the hush that had settled in the streets, or the large, lazy snowflakes that had begun drifting in the gray, dead air. He walked the two blocks to his own small, austere office, hung his wraps, and took his place at his desk.

It was midafternoon before he called his assistant with a sealed document in his hand.

“It is imperative that this reach General Henry Dearborn in Albany as soon as possible. Send it by courier.”

Four days later a light, two-masted schooner broke through the ragged ice that reached fifty feet from the wharf at Albany out into the Hudson River. The gangplank thumped into place on the frigid docks, and a man with a small suitcase in his hand and vapor trailing from his nose and mouth stepped gingerly ashore. Twenty minutes later Henry Dearborn raised his head at his desk, startled at the loud, insistent rap at his door. The courier, short, wiry, with nervous eyes, handed him the sealed document and stood waiting, shifting from one foot to the other while Dearborn read it twice before he looked up.

“Wait in the foyer. I’ll have an answer within the hour for you to deliver back to Secretary Armstrong.”

For a time Dearborn arranged thoughts and words in his mind before he reached for a sheet of paper and his quill and began to write.

“ . . . I understand I am to immediately assemble four thousand troops at Sacketts Harbor for an assault on Kingston, and an additional three thousand troops at Buffalo for the subsequent assault on York and the Niagara Peninsula. I further understand that I shall have available the services of naval forces under command of Captain Isaac Chauncey and Commodore Oliver H. Perry, and their ships, to transport troops and lend firepower should it be required. I must voice my principal concern in the plan as I understand it. The British will observe that we are concentrating large forces and supplies at Sacketts Harbor and shall correctly conclude that we intend attacking their facility at Kingston. My deep concern is that should they do so, we will once again find ourselves lacking in men and material in sufficient supply to take possession of Kingston. However, notwithstanding my concern, I shall proceed at once . . .”

For days Dearborn buried himself in the endless paperwork that politics and war demand. Sealed orders were sent by courier to Isaac Chauncey and Oliver Perry, ordering them to gather their ships and crews—Chauncey at Sacketts Harbor on Lake Ontario to prepare for the assault on Kingston, Perry on Lake Erie, at Presque Isle. Commissary and supply agents were sent to contract for the purchase of the massive stockpiles of materials necessary to support ten thousand men through the last months of winter and into the spring. Through the remaining days of February and deep into the month of March, troops arrived to take up camp at the naval base at Sacketts Harbor, along with mountainous stockpiles of uniforms, shoes, muskets, rifles, cannon, mortars, gunpowder, shot, shells, blankets, wheat, dried fish, barrels of salt pork and beef, potatoes, rice, sugar, coffee, medicines, and bandages.

From his office in Washington, D.C., Armstrong was watching Dearborn in Albany like a hawk, to be certain he did not repeat the fatal performance that had cost the United States the entire campaign of 1812. When bold leadership had been the critical need in the assaults on Fort George and Montreal, Dearborn had hidden behind paperwork and protocol and abandoned any pretense of uniting and leading his men into battle. The result was disaster. It was not going to happen again, if Armstrong could stop it. He arranged contact with picked officers and purchasing agents, under orders that they were to keep him abreast of every development among the troops and their supplies, and Armstrong read and reread their incoming messages daily.

It was late in March when he sensed it. With the date to commence the assault on Kingston just days away, Dearborn was still in Albany, vacillating, spending his days in bookwork and communications, ignoring the crying need for him to step up and lead! Armstrong sent him a direct order.

“You are hereby ordered to travel from Albany to Sacketts Harbor to command the American forces in person!”

Reluctantly, almost fearfully, Dearborn made the wintry journey up the Hudson River the few miles to the Mohawk River and then west on the water to Rome, and on northwest overland to Sacketts Harbor. The day he arrived at the naval base he took his first shock.

The harbor was still frozen with ice thick enough to march an army to Canada, or for the British to march an army to the United States! Chauncey and his boats had no chance of reaching Kingston.

Two days later Dearborn took his second shock. An exhausted messenger with a great brown wool coat and a beard with icicles hanging banged on his door to hand him a message scrawled by one of the captains out on patrol.

“The British have assembled between six and eight thousand regulars at Kingston . . . they intend marching on Sacketts Harbor.”

Dearborn recoiled as though struck. His worst fear—the one he had stated so clearly to Armstrong months before—had come to pass. British patrols had reported the buildup of men and materiel at Sacketts Harbor, and the British war council had correctly concluded the Americans meant to attack Kingston. Their response? Gather their own forces and strike Sacketts Harbor first!

Eight thousand British regulars at Kingston, poised for an attack? How could his own four thousand American soldiers survive such a battle?

Behind the closed door of his office he paced back and forth, near distraction, unable to force his shattered thoughts to any sense of logic or reason. In his panic, it never occurred to Dearborn to send out other patrols to confirm the number of British troops actually gathered at Kingston, nor to determine their state of readiness to make an all-out march and attack on Sacketts Harbor. He would never know that had he done so, he would have learned that the British forces at Kingston were not eight thousand. Far from it! They were less than three thousand, and they were not prepared to march anywhere, least of all across ice where they would be visible for miles, to make an attack on Sacketts Harbor!

Within one hour he had issued grim orders to his war council.

“You will immediately make all preparations to receive and resist an attack from the British at Kingston.”

The following day he summoned Chauncey and his naval commanders, among them Adam Dunson, to his office for a session to be conducted behind locked doors. Agitated, hands trembling, he wasted no time in spreading a map before them and the usual formalities were forgotten as he jammed a finger on the map at the place marked Kingston.

“Gentlemen, reports reached this office yesterday that the British have about eight thousand troops gathered at Kingston and that they intend making a full-scale attack on our facility here at Sacketts Harbor.”

The room went silent, and Dearborn droned on.

“I have no reason to doubt the reports. I have ordered our army to prepare for a massive assault. If it comes, we have no choice other than to engage the British here, which we shall do.”

He paused while the alarmed officers exchanged open exclamations, then settled. Dearborn continued. “If the British do not attack, we have the option of completing our attack on Kingston as planned. However, with eight thousand British regulars there to defend their facility, there is little chance of our success with only four thousand to make the assault.”

Adam Dunson sat still, only his eyes moving as he watched Chauncey, then the other lesser naval officers and then Dearborn, and Adam saw the near-panic in Dearborn’s eyes.

“My orders,” Dearborn continued, “are to deliver a victory, and I will not engage in a battle we cannot win. It is clear to me that we must reconsider the standing orders to take Kingston. I brought you here to discuss an alternative plan. I am open to suggestions.”

There it was, plain, simple, ugly. With no confirming reports, with no definition of how the British forces were disbursed, or the number of their cannon, or the officers in command, Dearborn was once again in full-blown retreat from horrors that existed only in his mind.

Chauncey sensed it and was the first to speak. “If that’s true, then may I suggest we reverse our plan. Take York first, then back to take Fort George, and on east to take Kingston last.”

Adam saw the first light of hope come into Dearborn’s eyes. “Yes, go on.”

Chauncey continued, his voice rising, hands gesturing. “York is the capital of Canada. Small, but the capital nonetheless. There is only a small British force there to defend it, less than one thousand. It is accessible from the lake. Once the ice is gone, we can make an amphibious landing. Our gunboats can give cannon cover to the troops as they march on the town.”

Adam saw the relief coming into Dearborn’s face. “How do you propose getting our troops from here to the York harbor and then ashore?”

Chauncey considered for a moment, then turned to Adam. “Mister Dunson, you’ve been inside the York harbor before, correct?”

“Yes. Many times. Picking up and delivering shipped goods.”

“How would you go about attacking the town?”

Adam rose from his chair and for several seconds studied the map. Then he moved his finger along the Canadian shore of Lake Ontario, east of the York harbor, as he spoke.

“Scarborough Heights are here. The British have picket posts about every three or four miles with semaphore flags to pass messages. If there is no fog, they’ll see our squadron coming long before we get to the York harbor, and they’ll relay the message on to Fort York. They’ll be waiting for us.”

A tense silence settled over the officers as Adam paused, then went on.

“But I think there’s a way to surprise them. Track with me.”

He placed his finger on the west side of the harbor, near the top.

“The blockhouse and the legislative buildings are here.”

He moved his finger down, speaking as it went. “The naval dock yards are in this area.”

He stopped about halfway to the mouth of the harbor. “Fort York and the village are here. The governor’s house is right here, and next to it is a powder magazine. A huge one.”

He moved his finger a short distance farther down. “There is a battery of cannon right there. Those guns can reach anything approaching Fort York and the village from the water, before it gets there.”

He shifted his finger further south, on the west side of the very mouth of the harbor. “There is an old fort here, built years ago by the French. I doubt there are any guns still active there, but there could be.”

He moved his finger around the curving mouth of the harbor to the shoreline of Lake Ontario and moved it west and stopped.

“If I were to do it, when the ice will allow, I would not take the squadron into the harbor to face the British guns that will be waiting for us. I would put my men ashore here. From Lake Ontario, outside the harbor. It’s about one and one half miles from the town. From there, they can march northeast behind the old French fort and behind that battery of guns, directly to the town. They can hit the town from the west side and the rear at the same time. While they’re marching, we can send gunboats into the harbor and pin down the defenders with our cannon to keep them from preparing to meet the land attack. For a short time, the British are going to be in a state of confusion, trying to decide whether they should engage the soldiers coming from the west on land, or the ships coming into the harbor from the south.”

There was excitement in Chauncey’s eyes as he responded. “You would not attempt an amphibious landing from the harbor directly on the town? If we land troops on both sides of the town, we can trap the defenders. Leave them no way out.”

Adam nodded his head. “It is my guess they will be expecting us to do that. If they do, they will divide their force, most of them on each edge of the town, facing outward. That will reduce their forces by about one half, either direction. If we can get our troops ashore quickly enough down here to the west, and if they can cover the ground fast enough while we open fire from our gunboats with all available cannon, it is my opinion we can pin down the British long enough for our troops to overrun the defenders on the west side of town before the other half of their fighting force can get there to help them. We can be into the town before they get organized.”

Chauncey looked at Dearborn, waiting for a response.

Dearborn cleared his throat. “Does anyone have other options?”

Experienced eyes went over the map again and again while comments and proposals were put out on the table, discussed, dismembered, and discarded. Slowly the talk died.

Chauncey seized the moment. “I propose we agree on Mister Dunson’s plan. There is risk, but it is acceptable risk, and if it succeeds we will have accomplished our major objective. We will have our victory, and the nation will be lifted!”

Adam raised a hand in caution, and the room became silent as he spoke. “There are two remaining questions. Do we have a commander capable of getting our troops from the ships to the shore in longboats and bateau, and then leading them to Fort York at double-time and taking the town? And who are the British officers we will be facing? How capable are they?”

Every eye turned to Dearborn, expectant, waiting in the silence.

He shifted his feet before he spoke. “I will have to consider which army officer should lead the attack. As for the British officers we will be facing, my information is that their commanding officer is Sir George Prevost. He is capable. Sir Roger Sheaffe leads their army troops. His military record is very good. Commodore James Lucas Yeo is expected to become their naval commander but has not yet arrived. He is a cautious man, but competent.”

Meaningful glances were exchanged around the table with a few comments before they all turned back to Dearborn.

“If there is nothing else, this meeting is concluded. Mister Chauncey and Mister Dunson, remain here to assist in drafting the new proposal for delivery to Secretary Armstrong and President Madison.”

It was late afternoon before an exhausted Dearborn signed the six-page document addressed to Secretary of War John Armstrong, then leaned back to dig the heels of his hands into weary eyes. He drew a great breath and released it slowly before he stood.

“Gentlemen, I shall personally deliver this to Secretary Armstrong. While I am gone, Brigadier General Zebulon Pike will be in command of the army here. He will be under orders to prepare for the British attack.”

There was no attack. On April first, the ice was still thick on the lake. Strain and raw nerves at both Sacketts Harbor and Kingston took its toll on soldiers and sailors who waited and watched through day after day of bleak, freezing cold, and storms with gale force winds that cut through their heavy coats to chill them to the bone. By mid-April the ice had begun to turn rotten, and by April nineteenth only patches remained along the shoreline. On April twentieth, Dearborn returned from Washington, D.C., to Sacketts Harbor and resumed command of his forces. The morning of April twenty-first he called both Chauncey and Pike to his office.

“Secretary Armstrong approved our plan. We attack York immediately.” He turned to Pike. “Start loading your troops onto Mister Chauncey’s boats and bateaux tomorrow morning.”

Chauncey raised a hand to cut him off. “We have a storm coming in. A big one. I strongly recommend we wait until it passes.”

Dearborn shook his head emphatically. “We’re already three weeks late. Storm or no, we load tomorrow and proceed.”

The morning of April twenty-second broke dismal gray with thick, purple clouds riding low, driven by heavy winds. Captain Chauncey bit down on his need to wait out the storm, and General Pike gritted his teeth against his innermost fears as he ordered his men to board the ships and the bateaux for the attack.

The loading began. In an unending procession the longboats left the docks filled with soldiers from Pike’s army, rowed out to the waiting ships with the bateau tied behind, and tried to hold steady in the rising swells while the soldiers climbed netting up to the rocking decks above. Then they broke away from the ships to make way for the longboats waiting behind, and returned to the docks for the next load. They continued through the afternoon, with the winds rising, whistling in the rigging of the ships, whipping spray from whitecaps onto the huddled troops.

The ships steadily filled, with soldiers jammed into every compartment, every corner—in the hold of the ship and crammed onto the main deck, standing shoulder to shoulder. On the USS Madison, more than six hundred men were squeezed together in a space designed for one hundred fifty. On every ship, no more than half the men could go below deck at one time, so they began a rotation—half above and half below deck—to avoid freezing that could cost fingers and toes and noses.

Dusk came gray with the winds holding strong, singing in the rigging, kicking up swells and whitecaps that drenched the men and swamped the longboats and slammed them into the sides of the pitching, rolling ships and bateaux. With full darkness upon them, Chauncey shouted the orders that stopped the longboats, and they returned to shore to wait for morning.

The winds held through the night, and with dawn approaching the rain squalls came freezing, driven, slanting, to soak every man and the rigging of every ship, whipping the water as it ran from their beards and blankets and coats and the sails of the bucking vessels.

On the Margaret, Adam ran flags up the mainmast that told Chauncey, “There is danger to men and vessels. Do we continue loading?”

Chauncey answered. “Danger recognized. Will inquire.”

Quickly he sent a written message ashore to Armstrong with an officer in a departing longboat.

“Imperative that we cease loading and wait for the storm to abate . . . there is risk of longboats or ships capsizing.”

The answer came back. “Continue loading. Make sail for Kingston when finished.”

Chauncey silently cursed Armstrong for a fool and sent flags up the mainmast with the message to Adam and all other ships.

“Ordered to continue loading.”

Adam shook his head in disbelief, and the Margaret continued battling the treacherous winds and rains with the crew holding its breath, desperately straining to avoid a mistake on the swamped decks that would kill or maim the men coming aboard from the longboats.

Shortly before noon the last longboat was unloaded, and it broke away from the ship to fight its way back toward the docks. Obedient to his orders, Chauncey ran the signal flag up the mainmast, and commanders of the thirteen ships, each with one or more bateau lashed on behind, stared for a moment in stunned amazement, then weighed anchor and followed Chauncey on the flagship, with the Margaret right behind, out of the partial shelter of Sacketts Harbor into the full fury of the storm.

The masts of the schooners creaked and groaned as the freezing, howling winds from the southeast stretched the sails to their limits, and the great, surging whitecaps came sweeping over the railings to bury the decks of the overloaded ships and the bateau, and send them wallowing, pitching, leaning violently, first to port, then starboard. Time had no meaning as Chauncey stood stony faced on his quarterdeck, conscious of but one thing. Every ship in his squadron was loaded double and triple beyond its design, with hundreds of huddled men and far too much weight on the main decks. They were unstable, leaning fifteen and twenty degrees beyond their limits. The question was not, would one or more of them capsize? The question was, when would one of them capsize?

He had reached Stony Point before he overrode Armstrong’s orders. He barked his own orders to his first mate, and the man ran signals up the mainmast, “Return to port immediately.”

One by one the ships made the turn and fought their way back to Sacketts Harbor to drop anchor and ride out the storm while the troops remained on the decks with their soggy blankets pulled about their shoulders to hold in what heat they could. The following day the storm blew itself out, and by evening the clouds separated to a glowing sunset. At dawn the next morning, beneath clear skies, with a steady southeast wind, the entire squadron weighed anchor and once again took a bearing due west, out of Sacketts Harbor into the open waters of Lake Ontario with the Julia leading, the Growler in the rear, and the Madison, Oneida, and Margaret in the center. The wind held, and the line of ships, each towing its flat-bottomed bateau, sped steadily west, watching the distant shoreline of the lake slip past throughout the day.

The sun was low in the west when Adam extended his telescope and for a time stood on his quarterdeck studying the faint, dark line to the north that was Scarborough Heights on the shore of the lake. He could not see them, but he knew there were British outposts on the heights, and that red coated pickets would be there with their own telescopes, intently watching for the first sighting of the sails of the approaching American squadron.

Have they seen us yet? What will their General Sheaffe do when the report reaches him? Will he set up his defenses the way we expect? Or are we sailing into a surprise? A trap? Time will tell. We’ll see.

Onshore, a British sergeant at a picket post near the top of the Heights raised his telescope to his eye to scan the lake on his regular fifteen-minute interval. Suddenly he tensed, and his arm shot up to point. “There!” he exclaimed to the three startled soldiers beside him. “A squadron! It has to be the Americans! The ones we were told about.”

“How many?” blurted the corporal next to him.

Seconds passed while the sergeant slowly moved his telescope, counting.

“Thirteen ships, and it looks like they’re towing bateau! It’s them! Their main force! On a heading for York harbor! Send the message. Now!”

The corporal snatched up his semaphore flags and raced up the ladder rungs to the small platform at the rear of the post. He faced due west and with the flags fluttering in the wind, spelled out the warning over and over again, “Thirteen enemy gunboats with bateau approaching York harbor—thirteen enemy gunboats approaching York harbor.”

Four miles farther west, with the sun setting behind, the next picket post read the message, waited for it to repeat, then turned and relayed it to the next picket post. In early dusk, the message reached Major General Sir Roger Hale Sheaffe at his desk in the government building at York. Sheaffe, aging, balding, heavy-lidded eyes, long tapered nose, calmly rose from his chair and called for his assistant.

“The American squadron is approaching. Assemble the war council.”

Within minutes the six officers were gathered around the plain pinewood table in his small conference room, waiting in apprehensive silence.

“Gentlemen, there is a squadron of thirteen American gunboats with bateau approaching from the east. The total firepower of their cannon is about triple what we have here, and their complement of soldiers is more than double our total fighting force.”

Wide-eyed silence gripped the room while Shaeffe spread a map and tapped his finger on Scarborough Heights, east of York harbor. “They were seen here less than half an hour ago. I expect them to be in the harbor about sunrise. I am open to suggestions of how we deploy our forces to meet them.”

For more than one hour the officers leaned intently over the map, gesturing, debating, exclaiming in the give and take that slowly shapes a plan the majority can agree with. The moon had risen before they shrugged into their capes and clamped their tricorns on their heads and walked out into the freezing wind and hurried across the parade grounds to the barracks to give the orders that brought groans and murmured cursing. In the blustering cold, red-coated regulars shouldered their backpacks and slung their muskets over their shoulders and marched to follow their officers to their assigned positions to face the attack. One half of them took positions on the east end of town, around the legislative buildings and the old blockhouse, while the other half went west, to positions near the lone cannon battery. The gray of approaching dawn found them hungry, shivering in the cold, wiping at dripping noses, peering west toward the entrance to harbor, still hidden in the dark. The black silhouettes of the sails of the American gunboats came with first light, and then the rising sun caught the tops of the masts with the American flags snapping in the southeast wind about one mile west of town, not far from the ruins of the ancient French fort and nearly one mile off shore. There, in the frigid wind, the red-coated regulars watched as the American flotilla dropped anchor.

On board the American ships, the captains gave the orders, and soldiers went over the sides into the more than thirty bateaux, hunched down while the seamen rowed to gather around the Madison, waiting for the signal to start for the distant shore where General Sheaffe had positioned the Eighth Infantry to oppose them, supported by the Glengarry Light Infantry, a few Newfoundland Fencibles, and a scatter of Canadian militia.

American general Zebulon Pike, thirty-four years of age, a rising star in the United States Army, whose brusque leadership had irritated some of his fellow officers, had been assigned to lead the assault. He was in the lead bateau with a company of Benjamin Forsyth’s riflemen when the signal was given to start for the distant Canadian shore, watching for the first glimpse of movement that would mean British troops waiting, or for a British Union Jack flying in the stiff wind that was blowing hard from the right, driving the bateau to their left, west, out of line with the place picked for the landing.

They were two hundred yards from the shore when the first cloud of white smoke erupted on the shoreline, and the first musket balls came whistling, and then the rolling blast from the first volley of the British regulars. They were fifty yards closer to shore when the second volley came whining, and some men in the leading bateau groaned and sat down. Two paddles in the first bateau shattered while the others continued to dig into the choppy waters, oarsmen straining to cover the last distance to shore to get off the water where they were prime targets.

They were yet fifteen yards from shore when the riflemen in the first two bateau went over the side into water up to their belts to get ashore, rifles high above their heads to keep the powder dry while musket balls kicked up geysers two feet high in the water all around them. Then, as in a dream, the first of them were on the land, dripping, kneeling, some going down while the others fired back with their deadly Pennsylvania long rifles, and British redcoats were going down and any sense of time was lost as the two major forces collided in hand-to-hand fighting and then the British lines began to buckle, then bent and backed up and broke, and the Americans stormed after them into the trees, leaving the invaders in control of the beach and the forest while the British beat a full retreat back toward the town.

Back on the water, Adam stood fast on his quarterdeck while the last of the bateau broke away from the Margaret and started for the shore amidst the continuous rattle of musket and rifle fire. Adam raised his telescope and studied the collision of the two armies, and watched with growing hope as the British wavered then suddenly began their retreat.

He turned and barked his orders, pointing ashore. “Weigh anchor! All canvas! Move west to that open ground between the woods and the town! Full speed! All gun crews! Load with canister. Stand by to fire!”

Seamen threw their weight against the windlass, and the anchor chain rattled on deck as it came reeling in. The gun crews banged the gun ports open, jerked the knots loose, and backed their cannon away to jam the sacks of gunpowder down the muzzles, followed by the pouches filled with canister, then strained on the ropes to drag the cannon back into firing position. Seamen on the arms high above the deck unfurled the sails, and they dropped to catch the wind, popped full, and the big ship came alive, cutting a thirty-foot curl as she plowed east, toward the town and the open ground through which the British had to pass. The redcoated regulars broke from the trees at the same moment the Margaret came abreast of them and Adam shouted, “Fire!”

The nineteen heavy cannon on the port side of the ship bucked and roared in unison, and the wind whipped the great cloud of white smoke aside. Adam and his gun crews saw the British soldiers buckle and go down as the canister shot spread to rip through the trees and into the running soldiers.

As fast as seasoned hands could move, the gun crews on the Margaret reloaded and sent a second broadside of canister shot whistling ashore to knock the fleeing British rolling. The companies Sheaffe had stationed on the other side of York, the east side, came at a sprint, intending to meet those running the gauntlet of the cannon on the American ships, but they stopped in the town, hesitant at first, then refusing to be caught on the open ground being raked by the heavy cannon on the American ships, now two hundred yards off shore, delivering a near continuous barrage of grape and canister shot.

The lone British battery belatedly returned fire at the ships, and two American schooners held back, fearful of the heavy explosive cannonballs that came at them. It was on the third volley that someone in the British crew made the fatal mistake of allowing the smoking lanyard to touch the budge barrel, and the keg of powder exploded. When the smoke cleared, the gun had been blown off its mount, and the gun crew was yards away, lying dead or dying. The British battery never fired another shot.

In the town, at the governor’s residence, Sheaffe saw it coming. His forces had no chance of surviving the driving attack coming from the west, led by Pike and the crack riflemen, in combination with the American gunboats now relentlessly pounding the retreating British regulars and the village with continuous cannon fire. Quickly he rallied his officers and turned to Colonel William Chewett.

“Set fire to the main powder magazine. The gunpowder and munitions must be kept out of American hands. Then march your command to Kingston, on the Kingston Road. Do it now!”

Chewett gaped. “Sir,” he stammered, “there are more than two hundred barrels of gunpowder in the magazine, besides other munitions. Enough to blow half the town away!”

Sheaffe raised a warning finger. “Set it on fire and get away from it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sheaffe turned to Major William Allan. “Set fire to ship—the Sir Isaac Brock—and all the stores at the dockyard storehouses. We cannot let the ship or the supplies fall to the Americans. Then order your command to follow Colonel Chewett on the Kingston Road. Save your men. Do you both understand?”

There was no time to argue the order. Chewett and Allan both turned on their heels and trotted out of the building, back to their command.

Within twenty minutes, gray smoke was rising from the powder magazine, while the Sir Isaac Brock was in flames that were spreading in the wind, and the British regulars were east of town on the Kingston Road in full retreat. In the small village, the American soldiers had stopped among the crude log homes and buildings, in the dirt streets, winded, fighting for breath after their sprint from the forest across the open ground and into the town. They saw the smoke rising from the powder magazine and the ship at the far end of the docks, and from the huge piles of crated supplies on the wharves, and some of them were trotting toward the powder magazine to stop the fire.

Suddenly the magazine blew with a roar. Fire and rocks and stones and chunks and splinters of wood and a column of smoke were blasted three hundred feet into the air to rain down on everything within half a mile. Thirty-eight of the nearest American soldiers were blown back ten yards to hit the ground rolling and lay still, the life blown out of them. Two hundred twenty of those farther away were knocked off their feet, stunned, groaning, disoriented, bleeding where rocks and debris had ripped into them, crippling them, disabling them. The blast rattled windows as far away as Fort Niagara, across Lake Erie. The shock waves hit the American ships in the harbor to set them rocking and shiver their sails while chunks of stone twice the size of a man’s fist rained down on the decks.

The instant General Pike saw the flash he spun to take the shock on his back, and a rock the size of a cannonball hit him at the belt line to knock him ten feet, sprawling. Dazed, he tried to rise and realized he could not move his arms or legs. When they could, his troops gently laid him on a blanket and carried him to a longboat where waiting seamen rowed him back to the Madison. He died minutes later of a broken spine, with his head resting on a British flag his men had sent with him in tribute to his heroism and the victory that had cost him his life.

On the quarterdeck of the Margaret, the concussion of the blast hit Adam head-on and swept him back two full steps. In utter amazement he stared at the smoke and flame that leaped one hundred yards into the sky, and he hunched his shoulders and raised his arms above his head against the rocks and debris that came raining down. He raised his telescope to study the town and read the battle, and he saw the red-coated British gather at the east end of the village and then disappear on Kingston Road in full retreat with the Americans in hot pursuit. In the town, more smoke began to rise where Americans had set fires, first from the blockhouse at the east end of the dockyards and then at the governor’s residence facing the harbor. Then other smudges of smoke appeared among the homes, and Adam realized some of the soldiers were looting residences under any excuse they could invent, taking what they wanted and burning the buildings. The jails were raided and emptied and set afire. Amid the smoke and flames and the wreckage of much of the town left by the powder magazine explosion, Adam saw the British Union Jack hauled down from the battered flagpole, and moments later, the stars and stripes ascended to the top. The battle was over.

It was late in the day when Chauncey rapidly wrote and sealed a message describing the actions of the day, dramatically declaring a complete victory. York had fallen! The Americans had taken the capital of Canada! He sent the message by a special courier under instructions to sacrifice his horse if need be to reach Sacketts Harbor and the newspapers in New York before the polls closed two days later to end the politically critical election of the governor.

The exhausted messenger delivered the message in record time. The news spread as though carried on the wind. Euphoria seized the state of New York. We have taken the capital of Canada! We beat the British on Lake Ontario and on their own ground! Land and sea! We won! We won! The Republican administration has been vindicated. Vindicated!

The election ended, and the polls closed with a shaky President Madison awaiting the results. Two days later it was clear that Daniel Tompkins, the Republican candidate, had won the election by a resounding margin. Unending praises were heaped upon Chauncey and his squadron, and upon the brilliant leadership of President James Madison.

Chauncey sent written messages to each of the American ships anchored in the harbor.

“To be certain the British do not return with a counterattack to retake York, we will remain anchored for more than one week in York harbor. You will hold your gun crews at the ready while our forces on shore set up defenses at the blockhouses and at the battery west of the small village. Scouts and patrols will make daily reports on any British forces in the area.”

For more than a week the American ships remained at anchor, while patrols on both land and water maintained a continuous watch for the return of the British. None were seen. The British had accepted the loss of York.

On the sixth day of May, Chauncey lowered himself into a longboat, and his crew rowed him to the nearby Margaret, where he met with Adam behind the closed door of the captain’s quarters. With the two of them seated at the small desk inside the tiny room, Chauncey spoke quietly.

“I have sent a message to President Madison describing in detail the entire assault. Your name is prominent, as it should be. Your contribution was irreplaceable. You are not an officer in the United States Navy; however, I am recommending that you receive congressional acknowledgement of your action.”

Adam’s expression did not change. “Thank you, sir.”

Chauncey’s eyes dropped for a moment, then came back to Adam’s. “You have heard me speak of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, a naval officer presently in command of our forces on Lake Erie, to the west of us.”

“I have, sir. I know something of the man.”

Chauncey went on. “The British have lately sent their Commodore Sir James Lucas Yeo to take command of their forces here on Lake Ontario, and I am under orders to remain here to prevent him and the British from controlling this lake. At the same time, it is clear the British mean to maintain their present control of Lake Erie. Our Captain Perry is to drive them out if he can. To do that, he will need all the assistance available.”

Adam saw it coming and remained silent.

Chauncey concluded. “This squadron is going to leave York in two days to return to Sacketts Harbor because I expect the British will attempt an all-out assault there to try to redeem their loss here at York. Now, Mister Dunson, I cannot order you, so I am asking you on behalf of the United States Navy and the American people. When I weigh anchor and make sail for Sacketts Harbor, would you take your ship and crew south across this lake, up the Niagara River, to Lake Erie. Find Captain Perry at Presque Isle and deliver this document to him?”

Adam took the sealed document and studied it for a few moments. “What is the document?”

“My orders to Perry to accept your services in helping to secure Lake Erie.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me and my ship and crew to volunteer to help hold Lake Erie? For how long?”

“Until there is no question that we are in control.”

“That might be next fall, or early winter.”

Chauncey bobbed his head. “It might well be.”

For several seconds Adam weighed it out in his mind. Food, ammunition, his obligation to Laura and his children, the obligations of his men to their families, and the terrible burden of taking them all into harm’s way.

“Yes, sir,” Adam replied quietly. “The Margaret will be ready. And her crew.”

For a long moment Chauncey stared into Adam’s eyes, and in the silence something passed between the two men that would remain with each of them forever. Chauncey nodded and reached to shake Adam’s hand, then turned and ducked out of the small door to return to his longboat.

Notes

The badly bungled military campaigns of 1812, under the command of the aging and inept General Henry Dearborn, brought serious political losses to Madison’s Republican Party in the national election of November, 1812: twelve percent in the House of Representatives, four percent in the Senate, and the loss of governorships in six states. Madison understood he must deliver some victories to the voters if he did not want to lose the pivotal Republican governorship of the state of New York in the state election of April 27, 1813.

As described herein, he appointed John Armstrong his secretary of war and requested him to create a plan that would succeed. Armstrong arrived in Washington, D.C., February 4, 1813, moved into the political scene with much energy, and had audience with President Madison on February 7 to receive his approval for a plan to be set before Madison’s cabinet February 8. The plan was as described. Captain Isaac Chauncey, a rising American naval officer, was selected to take command of the ships. The date set to commence the campaign was April 1, 1813, and was totally dependent on the ice on the Great Lakes being gone by that date. At the same time, Armstrong had arranged for newspaper articles to be delivered to the prominent newspapers in the country on April 1, declaring victory for the Americans in the April campaign.

The ice did not recede until April 19. The attack was postponed until April 22, then postponed again when a great gale made it impossible to land troops at Kingston, and Chauncey had to override Dearborn’s specific instructions by ordering his squadron to return to Sacketts Harbor. The ships and bateaux, loaded double and triple the number of men the vessels were designed for, finally made sail on April 25. They were seen by British outposts at Scarborough Heights on the Canadian shores of Lake Ontario, and the message was sent on to Fort York by semaphore flags. British General Sir Roger Hale Sheaffe divided his command to defend York, placing one half on each side of the village, east and west.

The American ships arrived at the mouth of York harbor two days later, and the all-out attack was made April 27. The American ships carrying the troops set them ashore west of York harbor, on the shores of Lake Ontario. While the troops made a hard run for the village, the ships entered the harbor and immediately began shelling the British troops that were sent to meet them. The British troops had to move through an exposed field to meet the Americans, and the troops on the east side of the village had to move through the village to reinforce those on the west. But with the American cannon on the anchored ships raking the field with canister and solid shot, the British refused to move. However, as the lone British cannon emplacement began to return fire, a careless crewman accidentally touched off the powder barrel and it blew the British gun and crew out of commission. The Americans stormed the village of York. The British officer in command, Sheaffe, ordered his troops to set fire to the British ship Sir Issac Brock, all supplies in the ship dock area, and the huge powder magazine next to the governor’s residence, and then retreat by marching out on the Kingston Road. The Americans had followed them into the town, when the gigantic powder magazine exploded. The blast shook the ground for miles and rattled windows across the lake at Fort Niagara and rained rocks and debris on every American ship in the harbor. The explosion killed thirty-eight Americans outright and disabled and crippled 222 others.

Among the American dead was General Zebulon Pike, commander of the American land forces, who was fatally wounded when a huge rock broke his spine as reported by one authority, or a stone hit his forehead, as reported by another. He was taken to his ship, the Madison, where he died with a folded British flag beneath his head, a tribute by his men to his bravery and leadership.

The Americans raided the town, pillaging and burning some homes, emptying the jails, and taking property at will. The Americans remained at York until May 8, 1813, when they loaded the troops back onto the waiting ships and set sail for Sacketts Harbor, fearing the British would retaliate with an assault there. News of the victory was sent to Sacketts Harbor immediately and on to New York newspapers, where it played a significant role in the election of Republican Daniel Tompkins in the governor’s race.

See Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 103–08; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 282–333; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 127–30; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 71–75; Wills, James Madison, p. 123.

For a diagram of York harbor, or bay, as described herein, see Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, p. 102.

Adam Dunson, his ship the Margaret, and his crew are fictional.