Northern Chesapeake Bay

September 7, 1814

CHAPTER XXIV

* * *

The Maryland forests that cradled the craggy, rocky shores of northern Chesapeake Bay were just beginning the magic transformation from the rich emerald green of summer to the indescribable colors of fall. Nights were beginning to lose the heat of the day, and mornings were remaining a little cooler a little longer. Birds of the sea wheeled and glided in proliferation with beady eyes, tracking invisible flying things and searching for offerings washed ashore from the dark blue-green waters of the great bay. Onshore the squirrels and chipmunks and bears, and all furred animals of the forest, were answering the ancient laws of nature that required them to store food for the winter, whether in hollow trees or as fat on their bodies, while their pelts daily grew heavier against the approaching winter.

In the bright sun of midday, with the British Union Jack stirring in the south breeze at the top of her eighty-foot mainmast, the HMS Tonnant rocked gently on the outgoing tide. The huge man-of-war, bristling with eighty cannon on two decks, was the flagship of the great fleet of more than sixty British gunboats and schooners and brigs and gondolas that for three months had been gathering on the Chesapeake from the place where the Patapsco River empties into the bay on the north, to the mouth of the Patuxent River, eighty miles south, under orders of the British admiralty to crush the small scatter of American ships that had appeared to make a useless show of resistance.

In command of the British fleet was British vice admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, aristocratic, taller than average, built well, high forehead, regular features, cleft in his chin. It was Cochrane, together with Rear Admiral George Cockburn and Major General Sir Robert Ross, who had become the instant and spectacular heroes of the British empire when they combined their sea and land forces to overrun the Americans at Bladensburg, and then ravaged and sacked and burned Washington, D.C., less than three weeks later.

The pivotal question that now paralyzed the Americans and teased the British was, where would the British forces strike next? Annapolis? Washington, D.C., again? Baltimore?

Cochrane, Cockburn, and Ross had for days bandied the question back and forth, with their proposals ranging from abandoning the Chesapeake altogether, to relocating at New York, to making sail for the planned assault in the Gulf of Mexico, to crushing Baltimore. The result of it all was their decision to take Baltimore and then get out of the Chesapeake. Their reasons were simple: Baltimore, with its stubborn defiance, had been a thorn in the side of the British for decades. To their thinking, reducing that city of forty thousand to ashes was long overdue. And they all deemed it prudent to be far from the Chesapeake before the malaria season set in.

On board the Tonnant, inside the captain’s quarters, Cochrane, Ross, and four other officers were gathered around a table, hats hung on pegs and tunics laid on a bunk, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up, chafing at the confinement and the muggy heat as they pored over a large map of the north sector of the bay, reaching north past the city of Baltimore. The windows were thrown open, and the door from the narrow corridor was half open to allow air to circulate in the small room.

Cochrane tapped the map with a finger and spoke to Ross.

“We’re going to have to put your infantry ashore, here, at North Point, on the peninsula, fourteen miles south of the city. They’re going to have to march to Baltimore.”

Ross looked at him in question, and Cochrane went on.

“At the north end, where you will have to land, both the bay and the Patapsco River are too shallow for heavy ships. We can get some of the schooners and gondolas closer, up the Patapsco to Baltimore, but none of the heavy men-o’-war. You’ll have to make your landing and your march north without support from our heavy guns.”

He shifted his finger north, up the Patapsco River to a point near the city of Baltimore, and again tapped the map.

“This is Fort McHenry. Five-sided. Built by a Frenchman named Foncin. Finished about seven years ago. It is very near the water on this small finger of land south of Baltimore and has guns capable of reaching anything within two miles. To get to Baltimore by water, we have to get past this fort. In short, if we mean to move our lighter ships up to Baltimore to give your infantry support from our cannon, we must first destroy Fort McHenry.”

Ross scratched at his jaw. “How many heavy guns and how many men in the fort?”

“Forty guns and over one thousand men. Under command of Major George Armistead.”

“How many gunboats can you put within range of the fort?”

“Enough to reduce it to kindling in one day.”

A look of skepticism crossed Ross’s face and was gone. He tapped the map midway between North Point and Fort McHenry, on the east shore of the bay.

“My scouts tell me the Americans have built earthworks right about here and have around three thousand armed militia there.”

“That’s true,” Cochrane acknowledged, “but you will have over four thousand regulars with you. You should have no trouble getting past militia. Many of them—maybe most—are without uniforms and have never been under fire. I expect them to scatter at the first sight of your regulars and the sound of cannon and muskets.”

Ross shifted his finger back to Baltimore.

“My infantry can march to Baltimore and attack from the east side, or even from the north side. But any success from our attack will depend on support from your cannon bombarding the city from the south and west.”

Cochrane was emphatic. “We’ll get our gunboats past Fort McHenry. We’ll be there to give you support from the harbor.”

Ross raised a hand in caution. “How is Baltimore defended right now? How many men? Cannon? Who’s in command?”

Cochrane answered, “Militia. Ten or twelve thousand. At least twenty cannon. Samuel Smith is in command.”

Ross’s forehead wrinkled for a moment. “General Sam Smith? The United States senator?”

“The same.”

Ross’s eyes narrowed. “A captured American soldier said Sam Smith’s been preparing Baltimore for an attack for the last six months. He has about ten or fifteen thousand men there, and he’s been drilling them morning and night. They’re armed. They can shoot. They’ve been digging entrenchments and building breastworks all summer. And Sam Smith is tough. He’s put some spirit into that city.”

The sound of booted feet descending the short, narrow stairway down to the half-open door brought all six men around to look as a young ensign rapped.

“Yes?” Cochrane said.

The door swung open and the red-haired young man in full naval uniform stood with his hat in his hand, new epaulets gleaming gold on his shoulders. His voice came strong, with a flavor of Irish in it.

“Sir, there’s a man here requesting audience with yourself. An American. From Georgetown.”

Every officer in the room stared for a moment before Cochrane spoke.

“An American from Georgetown? Military?”

“No, sir. A lawyer. He has a second man with him. He stated he wants to negotiate the release of an American we are holding prisoner.”

Cochrane looked at Ross in total puzzlement, then spoke to the young ensign.

“What’s his name? His position?”

“Key, sir. F. S. Key. The man with him is named Skinner. Mister Key is not military. Says he represents hundreds of Americans from this area, and about sixty of our soldiers.”

Cochrane’s head thrust forward. “What? He represents British soldiers?”

“That’s what he said, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“At the head of the stairs, sir, under armed guard.”

Cochrane glanced at the other officers for a moment. “Hold him there. We’ll be finished here shortly, and I will talk with him.”

“Yes, sir.” The ensign turned on his heel and thumped his way back up the stairs. Cochrane turned back to the table and the map and spoke to Ross.

“You say Smith is a hard opponent and has prepared Baltimore for an attack like the one we’re planning. You’re right. But with your four thousand men attacking from the east side of the city, and my gunboats destroying the west side, it will only be a matter of time before they strike their colors. It is my opinion we can complete the destruction of Baltimore within two days and be well on our way south.”

Cochrane straightened, waiting for responses.

Ross drew a deep breath. “The plan appears sound. We may have to make some adjustments as we go, but that’s to be expected.”

Cochrane turned to the other four officers. “Gentlemen?”

It was plain in their faces. Their desire to sack the city of Baltimore far outweighed their concerns of getting there or the defenses they could expect from the cocky Americans.

With very little comment, they endorsed the plan.

Cochrane concluded. “It is agreed then. We’ll have the infantry boarded on the transports by September 10, and we’ll move them up the bay for a landing at North Point early on September 12. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Very good. General Ross, would you bring that American who wants a prisoner released back to these quarters? The remainder of you are dismissed.”

The four officers gathered their hats and tunics and made their way out through the low, narrow doorway and climbed the stairs to the main deck, relieved to be out in the sunlight and the stirrings of a breeze. Ross followed and stopped at the head of the stairs, where the young ensign stood waiting with two men in civilian clothing.

For a long moment, Ross studied the two Americans. The obvious leader was slightly taller than average, with dark hair, regular features, middle-aged, with dark, intense eyes that were focused, showing no emotion. Beside him was an older man, thin, wiry, hair graying, a prominent nose and thin mouth. Both men carried satchels. Four uniformed British seamen stood beside and behind the two men, with muskets raised and bayonets gleaming in the sun.

Ross spoke to the younger man.

“You have come to secure the release of a prisoner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow me.”

He led the two Americans and the four armed guards down to the captain’s quarters, where Cochrane was waiting.

Ross pointed. “These are the Americans.”

Cochrane spoke to the four armed guards. “Go back up on deck and wait there.”

“Yes, sir.” The four men withdrew, and Cochrane waited until they closed the door before he addressed the two men before him.

“You wish to see me about a prisoner?”

The younger man nodded. “We do, sir.”

Suspicion was clear in Cochrane’s face. “Who sent you?”

“A group of citizens from—”

Cochrane raised a hand to cut him off. “No. Who in the United States government sent you?”

The man’s voice remained firm, steady, unruffled. “No one.”

“What is your name?”

“Key. Francis Scott Key.” Key turned to his companion. “This is Colonel John Skinner, sir. Colonel Skinner is a regularly appointed American agent for prisoner exchange.”

Cochrane studied both men for a moment, then spoke to Key. “You are from where?”

“Georgetown.”

“Are you with the Department of War? Department of State? What are you in the United States government?”

“I have nothing to do with the United States government. I am a civilian. I practice law in Georgetown.”

“A civilian?

“Yes. I arranged to have Colonel Skinner accompany me to be certain all formalities are abided in our request for a prisoner you are holding.”

“Who is the prisoner?”

“His name is William Beanes. Doctor William Beanes. He has served as the community physician in Upper Marlboro for at least the past forty years. Your soldiers took him prisoner for reasons not known. The citizens in Upper Marlboro are fearful he will be hanged. They retained my services to negotiate his release. I requested the assistance of Mister Skinner to be certain such release is full and final.”

Cochrane turned to Ross. “A Doctor Beanes? Ever heard of him?”

Ross shook his head but remained silent.

Cochrane turned back to Key. “Unusual. Citizens retained your services? Are paying you?”

“Expenses only, sir. I am charging no fee. You have to understand, Doctor Beanes is one of the most beloved figures for a hundred miles in Upper Marlboro. His entire life has been given to the medical care of anyone needing his services. No one knows how many times he gave of his time and his medical skills to anyone who needed them, without mention of being paid. This man is one of the finest.”

“Why was he taken prisoner?”

“He was tending wounded American soldiers when British troops took them all captive.”

“Is he an army doctor?”

“No, sir. He is not.”

Cochrane summed it up. “You’re here to obtain the release of an American doctor taken in the act of tending battle wounds of American soldiers. That is enough to hold him for giving aid and comfort to our enemy. Unless there is some compelling reason to the contrary, we will continue to hold him until we have a general exchange of prisoners. That could be months.”

“There’s more, sir,” Key exclaimed. He turned to Skinner, who handed him his heavy leather satchel. Key gestured to the small table and Cochrane nodded consent before he realized that the large map on the table and the few scattered papers with rough drawings of North Point and the Patapsco River leading to Baltimore were in plain sight. Quickly he gathered the papers and folded the map to allow Key to set both satchels on the table and open one of them.

“Sir, here are more than one hundred sixty letters from the leading citizens in Upper Marlboro, declaring the invaluable services Doctor Beanes has given in his life. They make it very plain that he has never borne arms against anyone. His life has been a model of selfless service in all seasons, day or night, to anyone who needed him, rich and poor alike. They plead with you to release him.”

Key opened the second satchel. “There are more than one hundred twenty letters from British soldiers—enlisted and officers alike—who Doctor Beanes has treated for wounds suffered in battle. Without him, those men would have been dead or crippled for life. Read them, sir. They swear this man has been an agent of mercy. He has been to battle fields while the guns were still firing, to help all wounded. American or British. It made no difference to him. Each of those letters includes a request that Doctor Beanes be released as a prisoner of war and allowed to return to Upper Marlboro. It is not known how many more British soldiers—and American—he will save, if he is allowed to continue with his life. Read them, sir. Read the letters. You cannot read them and remain unmoved.”

Key stopped, and for a time Cochrane stared at him before he turned to Ross. The two men did not speak, but a silent communication passed between them. Cochrane turned back to Key.

“You’re telling me that you have letters from one hundred twenty British military who are requesting the release of this man? Doctor Beanes?”

Key leaned forward, eyes alive, focused. “I am, sir. Read them. Every letter includes the signatures of two witnesses. There are more available if you wish to see them.”

Cochrane turned back to Ross. “Have you ever heard of anything like this before?”

Ross slowly shook his head. “No, I have not. If this is true, we had better consider it. This comes down to a matter of honor.”

Cochrane faced Key. “Leave the letters here. We’ll assign you quarters on the ship with an armed guard while we satisfy ourselves one way or the other, and call you back here, likely within the hour.”

With Key and Skinner in the first mate’s quarters and the four armed seamen standing guard, Ross and Cochrane emptied the satchel containing letters from British wounded onto the tabletop, startled at the number as they spread out, and a few dropped to the floor. For forty minutes they sat at the table in silence, opening the sealed documents, reading them, stacking them. They had finished most of them when Ross leaned forward.

“We can’t hold Doctor Beanes. The man has done more for our wounded than most of our own doctors. I’ve read more than thirty from our wounded enlisted and over twenty from our wounded officers. Nine of those officers swear they would have died without the man’s assistance. Day and night. Over sixty years old, and he was there day and night for them. If he had been a British military doctor he’d have received every commendation and medal available.”

Cochrane finished the letter he was reading and tossed it onto the table. “I can understand why everyone who knows him—including our own soldiers—swears he must be released.” He leaned forward on his forearms. “I’m going to do it. Any question?”

Ross shook his head emphatically. “None.”

Cochrane straightened. “Only one problem. When Mister Key was in this room he got a fairly good look at the map and some of the other papers. A clever man could put what he saw together and have a reasonably accurate idea of our plans for taking Baltimore.”

He stood. “I’ll release Doctor Beanes, but I think we better keep those two Americans in our custody until we have completed our attack on Baltimore. I can’t take a chance on their telling the American military what they may have seen on this table.”

Ross nodded. “Agreed. Shall I bring them back?”

“Yes.”

Minutes later, Key and Skinner were standing in the small room facing Cochrane, with Ross to one side and the armed guards just outside the door. Cochrane gestured to the letters on the table as he spoke.

“We’ve read most of the letters. We believe they are authentic. I will release Doctor Beanes as you requested. I presume you brought the proper papers.”

Skinner stepped forward and drew papers from his inside coat pocket. “Here, sir. The standard acknowledgements and release form. It includes a place for my signature as an authorized agent for the United States to complete the transfer of Doctor Beanes.”

Cochrane accepted the papers. “Our agent will inspect them, and I will sign them under his direction.” He paused, then went on. “There is one more thing. I must hold you in our custody for the next few days. It is possible you have seen or heard things on this ship that would be helpful to the American military. I cannot risk that. I give you my word that as soon as matters will allow, you will be released.”

Key exclaimed, “That is unexpected. Would it be enough if both of us swore to you we would not speak of anything we saw or heard on this ship?”

Cochrane shook his head. “I cannot do that. I believe you are both honorable men, but if I release you now and something goes wrong with our military campaign in this area, I could face an inquiry into my judgment in letting you go. I have no choice. You will have to remain for a few days.”

Key took a deep breath. “Then, sir, may I write a brief letter to my wife and children explaining this to them? They will presume the worst if I do not return shortly.”

Again Cochrane shook his head. “I cannot allow it for the same reason I cannot let you go. Such a letter could be viewed as a message or even a secret code. That’s the end of the question. You will be transferred from this ship to the Surprise and then to a sloop where you will remain until we withdraw from the Chesapeake.” He gestured to the letters scattered on the desk. “We will return these letters to you at the time of your release.”

Standing in the cramped captain’s quarters of the Tonnant, facing Vice Admiral Cochrane and Major General Ross, with four armed guards within a few steps, it was clear to both Key and Skinner, that Dr. Beanes would be delivered to them, but in the meantime, they would be detained until British operations in Chesapeake Bay were completed.

Cochrane pointed to the door and spoke to Ross. “Would you summon the guards and my first mate?”

In less than one minute the guards were crowded into the small room, followed by the first mate, and Cochrane gave his orders.

“Take these two men on deck and arrange for a longboat to carry them to the Surprise. They are not prisoners. For present purposes, they are guests, entitled to every consideration. Then locate a prisoner named Doctor William Beanes. Take him to the Surprise to join them. In the event of our moving up the Patapsco River, transfer the three of them to a small sloop that will remain behind. Am I clear?”

He was clear.

Cochrane and Ross waited while the seven men walked out the door and up to the main deck before they gathered the letters and packed them back into the two satchels. Cochrane folded the release papers received from Skinner and tucked them into the inside pocket of his tunic.

“I’ll have our agent check these.” He paused to look at Ross. “In the meantime, get your men ready to board those ships for the landing at North Point. We’re putting them ashore in the early morning of September 12.”

Ross nodded. “They’ll be ready.” He gestured to the two satchels of letters. “Where do you plan to store those?”

Cochrane shrugged. “Likely in my war chest, if there’s room. If not, in a chest under lock and key.”

Ross started for the door, then paused. “Reports say Sam Smith has had thousands of citizens in Baltimore building defenses.”

Cochrane’s eyes narrowed. “Slaves and masters, bankers and scoundrels, high and low—all working shoulder to shoulder digging, moving dirt, dragging tree trunks, running wheelbarrows filled with rocks—all as equals. I don’t know how he did it. You heard he had a reckoning with Winder? General William Winder?”

“I heard something about it. What exactly happened?”

“Winder was appointed by Madison’s administration to command the affairs at Baltimore—a federal appointment. When he got there, he was told very bluntly that the Committee of Safety Vigilance of the state of Maryland had already appointed General Sam Smith to take command of the Baltimore defenses. Winder wrote to secretary of war John Armstrong requesting he—Winder—be commissioned a major general in the Continental Army, to outrank Smith, who was a general in the state militia. Armstrong didn’t answer. Winder had to step back and let Smith take command.”

Ross chuckled. “I’ve heard reports that the Madison administration is filled with incompetents. Someone offered to hang Armstrong.” Ross sobered, then continued. “Sam Smith is not incompetent. If he’s been in command of Baltimore through the summer, we had better be prepared for some strong resistance.” He opened the door and turned back for a few moments with a distant look in his eyes. “I wonder where Smith is right now. How much does he know of our preparations to attack his city? How committed are those under his command? Will they stand and fight, or will they scatter and run, like they did at Bladensburg?”

Cochrane did not answer. Ross walked out and closed the door.

* * * * *

To the north, where the Patapsco River touched Baltimore, Maryland militia general Sam Smith stood at the head of a long table in the second floor of the courthouse. Seated on both sides were the military officers and the civilian leaders who had answered his call months earlier to prepare their city for the attack that he had predicted was coming. Sooner or later, he had exclaimed, the British were going to come with enough ships and cannon and infantry and muskets to overrun Baltimore and burn it to the ground. It would be partly in revenge for the fierce, stubborn rebelliousness of the city against Mother England for more than thirty-five years, he declared, and partly because Baltimore was one of the wealthiest, most key seaports in the United States.

It was a grim Sam Smith who had called the leaders of his city together and sworn to them that the British might take Baltimore, but by the Almighty, they would know they had been in a fight! He had laid out a detailed plan of the defenses that would give them the best chance of survival and then made assignments to every organization in town under Maryland State control—military or civil, federal or state, including churches—for each to do its share.

And Baltimore bowed its back and went to work through the summer months of 1814.

Then, as Sam had predicted, on the nights of August twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth, every man at the table had stood in silent shock as they watched the glow in the black night sky far to the south, knowing it was Washington—their national capital—burning in the rain. They had heard the faint rumble of the cannon, and seen the flames leaping into the sky, and felt the ground tremble when the powder magazine at Greenleaf’s Point exploded. They had suffered the shameful humiliation of knowing that their President Madison and those in command of the United States government had fled the city—abandoned it—while the United States military had crumbled into a disorganized, panic-driven, useless mob that ran away from the fight at Bladensburg.

With the British armada gathered in the bay, on August 27, Brigadier General John Stricker, Major George A. Armistead, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry, and Captain Robert T. Spence had persuaded colonels John Eager Howard, Richard Frisby, and Robert Stewart to plead with the governor of Maryland to appoint militia major general Samuel Smith commander of all military forces, state and federal, in defense of Baltimore. The governor did it without hesitating. Overnight, Sam Smith had divided Baltimore into four districts, based on groupings of voting wards, and given the orders necessary to each group for the defense of the city.

Now, in the heat of the second floor of the Baltimore Courthouse, all eyes on both sides of the table were on Sam Smith, waiting to make their reports on how well the city was prepared to defend itself.

“Gentlemen,” Smith began, “the assumptions we made months ago have proven correct. With the defenses we planned now near completion, we have forced the British to abandon any hope of a successful assault on Baltimore with infantry coming from the southwest. If they want this city, they are going to have to make an amphibious assault from the east side, on the Patapsco River. The question now before us is simple: Are we prepared to withstand such an assault? I convened this meeting to find the answer.”

He paused for a moment while the room became silent, and then started down the table, asking the men one at a time for a succinct answer to a single question: “Did you complete your assignment?”

“Major George Armistead?”

“Yes, sir. I was given command of defenses at Fort McHenry. I have one thousand armed troops that include flotillamen, militia, Captain Joseph H. Nicholson’s mercantile volunteers, and six hundred United States infantry. We have thirty-six heavy guns in place in the fort. The entire tip of Whetstone Point is fortified with batteries totaling another thirty-six heavy guns to defend against an amphibious landing. Just over one mile west of the fort, near Winan’s Wharf, is another earthwork with six smaller guns and a hotshot furnace. We have sixty men making musket cartridges and casting cannonballs. We are ready, sir.”

“Commodore Rodgers?”

“Sir, I have four hundred fifty seamen and fifty United States marines from the Guerriere, one hundred seventy marines from Washington under Captain Alfred Grayson, and five hundred flotillamen from Captain Barney. Further, sir, our defenses east of the city include ten thousand troops in trenches, with a total of sixty-two cannon. In addition, we have cannon batteries north and west of the main lines, along with breastworks and trenches. These batteries begin at Harris’s Creek with Midshipman William D. Salter in command of one gun with twelve men, and continue northwest, very close to Sparrow’s Point Road with five guns and eighty men commanded by Sailing Master James Ramage, and two guns and twenty men fronting Sparrow Point Road. West of the junction of the Sparrow Point and Philadelphia roads, we have one hundred men and seven guns under Lieutenant Thomas Gamble. They can provide a heavy cross fire on the main roads. Lieutenant Joseph Kuhn is in command of marines in trenches extending west from Gamble’s battery. The lines now extend west from Philadelphia Road to Belair Road, with seven companies of the Maryland First Artillery Regiment. Each regiment has four guns, and in addition we have stationed sixteen heavier guns in support. There are three cannon in front of the courthouse to warn the city when the attack begins. All told, sir, we have more than ten thousand men in battle position and more than one hundred cannon. I believe we are prepared.”

“Brigadier General John Stricker?”

“Sir, I have three thousand one hundred eighty-five men, trained throughout the summer, armed and ready to march out of the city in any direction, to meet any enemy.”

“Quartermaster Paul Bentalou?”

“Yes, sir. Citizens from all over Baltimore and even from outside the city were asked to come and bring their own picks and shovels and wheelbarrows to dig the trenches and build the breastworks in and close to the city, according to the plan. They came, sir. Morning and night. We ran out of money at the end of August, but banks made loans and citizens gave contributions, and altogether we got the six hundred sixty thousand dollars we had to have.”

Bentalou paused for a moment to pick up a paper. “There’s more, sir. We fell short of food and contracted with a bakery to bake bread day and night. They have done well. Farmers began bringing in wheat and potatoes and corn and handing it out free! We have hospitals prepared for wounded, should they be needed. Sir, I can’t . . . it’s unbelievable! Women all over town are rolling bandages, construction companies are donating lumber and bolts and nails, merchants are bringing shoes and boots. Blacks and whites are out there digging trenches and building breastworks, sweating side by side like brothers. I never saw such a thing in my life! The trenches and breastworks in the city will be finished within forty-eight hours.”

“Lieutenant Solomon Rutter?”

“Sir, the boom you ordered constructed south of Fort McHenry is completed. It reaches from shore to shore, four hundred fifty feet in the river south of the fort. It consists of ship masts chained together and timbers laid end to end and secured on piles. I believe the boom will stand against invading ships. If it does not, we have ships in place that can be sunk to seal off the channels.”

“Captain Samuel Babcock?”

“Sir, I was ordered to convert the cathedral in the city to a fort and to prepare barricades in the streets around it, in the event the British get that far. I can report that our great cathedral is now fortified, sir. And the street barricades are in place.”

“Major William Barney?”

“I was given responsibility to create a system that would keep us informed of British movements by the hour. We now have observation stations on the Chesapeake, from the Patuxent River, eighty miles south of us, to here. We have semaphore signal flags constantly conveying every move the British are making and mounted couriers at the ready to carry written messages should that be necessary. We have been question- ing British prisoners and deserters for every detail we can get. The communication system is in place, sir.”

Smith straightened in his chair. “I think we’re as prepared as we can get. There will have to be adjustments made once the shooting starts. Stay alert. I will be watching the entire conflict from my base on Hampstead Hill at the edge of the city.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “There’s one more thing that needs to be said.”

He paused and stood. “Most of you know that right now, there are negotiations for a peace treaty with England going on in the city of Ghent, in Belgium. President Madison has sent John Quincy Adams and Henry Clay and three others to represent the United States. The British sent James Lord Gambier and two others to represent England. The strength of our position was damaged—badly—when news arrived over there of the fall of Washington, D.C. If we now lose Baltimore . . . ”

He did not finish the sentence.

He looked briefly into the face of each man, and he saw the realization of the pivotal role Baltimore was to play in the future of America. “If the British were to succeed in plundering and burning Baltimore as they did the nation’s capital, our delegation in Ghent would suffer a fatal blow. The negotiations for a peace treaty could turn into a total surrender. Everything America had fought for since April 19, 1775, would be gone in the stroke of a pen.”

Smith concluded. “Thank you. All of you. Return to your duty posts and stand in a state of readiness, day and night.”

The men were gathering their papers when Smith interrupted. “I forgot one thing.” He turned to Armistead. “General, would you send someone to fetch the flag I commissioned last month? The one to be made by Mary Young Pickersgill. It’s finished. We may need it.”

The room silenced as Armistead answered. “Are you talking about the flag I requested?”

Smith’s eyes were intense points of light. “Yes. I ordered one big enough to be seen for ten miles. Thirty-two feet by forty-three feet. So big she had to lay it out on the floor of the local malt house brewery. Her daughter Caroline helped her sew it. I got her bill a few days ago. It cost four hundred five dollars and ninety cents.”

Surprised murmuring arose around the table, and Smith paused until it stopped before he went on. “To get to Baltimore, the British have to get past Fort McHenry, where you command. When they try, I want that flag mounted and flying where the British can see it for ten miles. They’re going to know we’re there, and that we intend staying there!”

For a moment there was complete silence, and then Armistead said, “Yes, sir. It will be there, and they’ll see it.”

Amid exclamations, the officers rose from the table with papers in hand, and Smith followed them down the stairs, out into the sunlight of downtown Baltimore where citizens and uniformed troops mingled, crowded together in the streets, as they sweated and worked on the trenches and breastworks and barricades to complete all defenses for their city.

Night had fallen, and the moon was high when an exhausted rider, dressed in well-worn civilian clothing and riding a winded horse, stopped at the home of Sam Smith and hammered on the door. Smith was in his nightshirt and holding a lantern high when he opened it and faced the man.

“Gen’l, sir, I was sent by Rodgers—beg pardon—Commodore Rodgers—to tell you—we seen British ships—little ones—down by the Patuxent, comin’ up the bay. They’re headed here for sure.”

“How many?”

“Hard to tell in the moonlight, but we counted over twenty-two. They’re comin’.”

“You need rest? Feed for the horse?”

“No, sir, we’re just fine. I got to get back down there with Rodgers. I wouldn’t miss this party for nothin’, sir. Uh . . . if it’s all right with you, sir, can I go?”

“You are dismissed.”

Smith remained standing in the doorframe with the lantern high to watch the man swing up onto his horse, spin the animal, and set his spurs. Sparks flew from the iron shoes hitting the granite cobblestones as the horse broke into a weary gallop. Smith watched him out of sight before he closed the door.

The sun rose, a hazy, round, yellow ball in an overcast sky, with criers in the streets shouting the warning—“British ships in the bay! Be prepared!” By midmorning the streets were filled with uniformed soldiers and people leaving their homes and shops to hurry to the trenches or to the cannon batteries, to wait for the messengers that came on the hour with reports of the slow, steady advance of the British fleet. The day wore on with tension mounting. Twilight found people leaving their battle positions while others arrived. Dusk, and then full darkness came, with the rotation of citizens and soldiers ongoing, and the network of observation posts on both banks of the Chesapeake studying everything that moved on the bay, while mounted messengers rode through the night to relay the information to Smith in Baltimore.

The sun was an hour high when two men in an observation tower at Herring Point on bank of the Chesapeake at the mouth of the Patapsco River jerked to a full stop, holding their breath, telescopes extended as they studied vague shapes moving north on the water in the morning fog. Within minutes the fog thinned, and a breeze moved upriver, and suddenly the shapes took form.

“There,” one shouted, arm up and pointing. “There they are! See them? Forty—maybe fifty! Big ones! British troop transports and men-o’-war! They’re coming!”

He spun and bounded down a flight of stairs to a small, wiry young man lounging near a tall, brown gelding, saddled and waiting. He fairly shouted at the startled boy, “They’re here! Fifty of them. British troop transports and gunboats! The invasion has started! Get word to Sam Smith!”

The young man leaped to the saddle and was gone in a clattering of hoof beats. He held his horse to a steady gallop, slowing twice in the twelve-mile run to let the laboring mount blow before he pushed his tired mount through the streets of Baltimore to the house of Sam Smith, to pound on the door.

His voice was high, strained as he pointed south. “They’re comin’! Fifty gunboats and troop ships! Right down at the mouth of the river.”

Within minutes Smith was at the courthouse, panting from his run, where he stopped short of the twelve men assigned to the three warning cannon.

“Fire those guns!” he shouted. “The British are coming up the Patapsco. The attack has begun.”

“Sir,” came the reply, “it’s Sunday! September 11! It doesn’t seem right to—”

Smith bellowed, “The Almighty will understand! Fire those guns!”

Within seconds the three cannon roared in succession, and in the midmorning sun, the defenders of the city came sprinting from their homes and barracks to their duty posts.

Smith quickly ran to the First Methodist Church on Light Street and burst into a Sabbath morning worship service in full session. Every head in the congregation turned to stare at him, and the Reverend John Gruber leaned forward over his raised pulpit, startled, indignant at the unusual interruption.

Smith did not wait for an invitation. He called down the long aisle, “Reverend, the British are in the Patapsco! The attack is started. We need you and these people.”

Audible gasps filled the air, and the Reverend Gruber instantly straightened and raised both hands and waited until the church was silent. Then his voice rang from the walls.

“The Lord Bless King George, convert him, and take him to heaven, as we want no more of him! Amen!”

The chapel was filled with amens as the congregation stood and followed Smith out the door into the churchyard where they scattered to return to their homes to retrieve their weapons and change from their Sunday finery into uniforms or clothing suited to their duty stations. Smith worked his way through the people and carriages and wagons jamming the streets to his home, where he quickly changed into the tunic of a major general and buckled his sword onto his left side. Minutes later he was in the saddle of his dappled gray mare, impatiently working his way through the streets to the edge of the city and on to his command post on the high point of Hampstead Hill, where he had a clear view of the harbor and the streets of the city. He was standing on a fortified observation tower with his telescope extended and pressed to his eye, searching the river and Baltimore Bay for British ships, when his aides arrived, followed by a squad of uniformed messengers who tied their horses at the rear of the command post, ready to deliver his orders to any commander or any unit on the Patapsco or in the city.

Smith turned to study the movement of his uniformed militia in the city and watched as they gathered at their assigned rendezvous points to get their ration of one day’s food and thirty-six rounds of ammunition for their muskets and rifles. Satisfied they were following the standing orders, he turned back to slowly sweep the bay with his telescope, and in the far distance were the top sails of the British ships moving steadily up the river.

He turned to his nearest aide, and there was a disciplined excitement in his face and his voice. “They intend attacking North Point, just as we expected. Write down the following.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide produced paper and a lead pencil and wrote rapidly as Smith dictated.

To General John Stricker. Assemble your city Third Brigade immediately and march them east, to take up positions on Long Log Lane just below Trappe Road. Bread-and-Cheese Creek is to the north, and Bear Creek is to the south. Nearby is a zigzag fence that divides a wooded area from large open fields. Set up your lines in the woods, behind the fence. To get past your line, anyone coming from the east will have to cross those open fields, under your guns. Engage and stop them if possible, or, hinder them and fall back if such be necessary.

                              Your obed’nt servant,

                              Gen. S. Smith.

The aide handed the brief document to Smith for his signature, then folded it and ran for the stairs, down to the messengers waiting in the shade of the rear wall of the command post with their horses at hand. The aide thrust the folded paper into the hands of the nearest uniformed rider and exclaimed, “General John Stricker! As fast as you can.”

With the message tucked inside his tunic, the man mounted his horse and reined it around to disappear, moving west at a gallop for the run back to the city. From the observation tower of his command post on Hampstead Hill, Smith watched the messenger disappear into the streets. Within one hour he watched the three thousand soldiers of the Third Brigade assemble in rank and file in the streets of Baltimore, with Revolutionary War veteran General John Stricker, fifty-five years of age and a native of Frederick, Maryland, seated on his black horse at the head of the column. Stricker stood tall in the stirrups to inspect his command, then turned his horse, raised his hand, and shouted the command, and the column followed him through the streets, fifes playing and drums banging, amid the shouts and cheers of the gathered citizens.

Through the heat of the sultry, humid afternoon, Smith watched Stricker’s command move steadily west on their seven-mile march, past Cook’s Tavern, over the bridge at Bread-and-Cheese Creek, to the Methodist meetinghouse just west of Trappe Road. With twilight coming on, Stricker’s entire command was in place in the woods behind the zigzag fence, dug in, tense, waiting, scarcely visible to anyone moving west on Long Log Lane.

In gathering dusk, Smith collapsed his telescope and turned to his aides. “I’m going home for some rest. When your replacements arrive, you do the same. We’re going to have moonlight tonight, enough to see much of the Patapsco and any ships that are moving. Keep a sharp watch. Tell your replacements that if they see anything on the water, they’re to send for me at once.”

He extended his telescope one more time and slowly scanned the river before he descended the stairs to his waiting horse. As he turned his mount toward the darkened town, he glanced to the south, and then the west, as though he could see the river and the roads, with his thoughts and his fears running.

They’ll send Ross—he’ll land at North Point—they’ll march west on Long Log Lane—won’t they?—won’t they?—how many men?—too many?—too many?

Behind him, in the faint moonlight on the river, the British fleet, led by troop transports and the big gunboats, gathered and came to a halt south of North Point. At the bow of the leading troop ship, Major General Robert Ross turned to the captain.

“This as far as you can go?”

“Yes, sir, it is. The river ahead is too shallow for the men-o’-war and the heavy troop ships. We’ll have to land your men here.”

Ross turned back to his aide. “Have they all received their rations and ammunition?”

The aide bobbed his head. “A light pack, three-days’ cooked rations, eighty rounds of ammunition. Yes, sir, they’re ready.”

Ross pointed in the dark. “We’ll put them ashore there, on the west side of North Point. Send light gun brigs and barges with carronades to escort the landing boats in the event of enemy fire. Start at three o’clock am.”

At three o’clock in the morning, under a waning moon, the British regulars went over the side of the troop ships into waiting landing craft, and oarsmen bent their backs to turn the boats toward shore. Dawn found the British light landing craft steadily moving the red-coated troops ashore, with General Ross and Admiral Cochrane waiting, giving directions to each arriving division. The sun had risen when a scout pulled his horse to a stop before Ross.

“Sir, there’s some sort of defenses about four miles west, up Long Log Lane. It looks like the Americans have militia there in a line that could be a mile long.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know, sir. They’re in the woods and across the road. Could be a large number.”

“Are they moving?”

“No, sir. Waiting.”

Ross turned to Admiral Cockburn. “I think I’m going to scout ahead. Would you care to come?”

The admiral nodded and ordered an aide to bring his horse. Ross turned to Colonel Arthur Brooke, his next in command.

“I’m going on ahead and taking the Light Brigade with me. I’m leaving you in command. When the artillery is ashore, move the remainder of our forces west toward the city, on Long Log Road. I’ll be waiting somewhere ahead of you.”

The sudden decision caught Brooke by surprise, and for a moment he stared, then spoke.

“Yes, sir. How far ahead?”

Ross shrugged. “That depends on what we find up ahead. You keep coming. I’ll find you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ross wheeled his horse, and with Admiral Cockburn beside him, led the Light Brigade marching west on Long Log Road toward Baltimore.

Brooke watched them for a time while he adjusted to the shock of finding himself responsible to move more than two thousand men with cannon and horses into what could become a head-on, do-or-die battle with stubborn Americans who had been preparing for months. He took a deep breath and quickly strode to the banks of the river to direct the landing of the heavy guns.

The sun was three hours high when the last of the six heavy cannon and two howitzers, with their carriages and horses, were on land, and the heat of the day was building. There were yet over one thousand men on the ships waiting for their turn to board the barges for the trip to shore. Sweating officers and silent men turned to Brooke for orders.

“I’m taking a company to find General Ross. Continue unloading. I’ll either return or send a message back when I know what lies ahead.”

With one company of red-coated regulars following, Brooke started west toward the city, sitting tall in the saddle, studying the road ahead and the thick forest cradling the road, missing nothing that moved.

Behind him, Vice Admiral Alexander Cochrane stood on the bow of his flagship on the river, intently watching the tricky business of unloading four thousand troops, with equipment, food, horses, cannon, muskets, and ammunition, without an accident. Noon was approaching when the landing craft delivered the last of the troops and their guns ashore, and Cochrane ran semaphore flags up his mainmast. The message they delivered to his fleet was clear:

“I am transferring to a schooner. All shallow draft vessels bearing guns will follow my schooner up the Patapsco River. We will be visible to all American observation posts and to the city of Baltimore for purposes of distracting and frightening them. We will then take positions to bombard the city when the ground forces of General Ross make their assault.”

The light, shallow-draft schooner came alongside the flagship, and the two crews rigged the hawsers between them. Experienced hands tied Cochrane into the wooden chair and swung him out over the rail of the huge gunboat, across the fifteen feet of water separating the two vessels, and down to the deck of the schooner. Minutes later the small ship veered to port and started up the Patapsco River with all other shallow-draft vessels bearing cannon falling into formation to follow.

On the shore, Colonel Brooke turned to his aide.

“How far do you judge we’ve come?”

“About four miles, sir.”

“I expected to meet General Ross before now. Have I—”

The aide’s arm shot up to point. “Just ahead, sir. There are some earthworks near that creek and a farmhouse beyond. See them? If I recall the map correctly, sir, that is Back Creek, and a man named Gorsuch owns the farm.”

Brooke called a halt while he extended his telescope and carefully scanned the entire area, then handed the telescope to his aide.

“Can you see any Americans—anything—moving in those earthworks?”

The aide raised the telescope for a time, then handed it back to Brooke. “No, sir. Nothing.”

“Keep a sharp eye.”

Brooke gave the command, and the column moved forward once again, watching the creek bed and the farmhouse. As they reached Back Creek, Brooke called a halt and rode among his troops.

“We’ll take one hour here to let the column close up and rest. Eat something. Find some shade if you can.”

Grateful, weary, sweating soldiers dropped their packs and reached for their canteens while Brooke rode to the head of his column. He was just dismounting his horse when his aide pointed toward the farmhouse in the distance.

“There, sir. I believe that is General Ross.”

Brooke turned to look, surprised to see Ross and Admiral Cockburn sitting on the back steps of the Gorsuch farmhouse, hats in their hands. Beyond them, in the shade of the farm buildings, were the men of the Light Brigade, at rest. Brooke reined his horse around and rode the dusty road to meet the two as they stood.

Ross settled his hat back on his head. “What’s the condition of your column?”

“Good, sir. I stopped them to rest while those behind close.”

Ross nodded his agreement. “Admiral Cockburn and I have done some scouting. We’re convinced we should move forward to make an early morning attack on Baltimore. I need you to go back to prompt all troops to march here as quickly as possible, with their cannon. We’ll be—”

Ross stopped at the sound of an incoming horse at full gallop, and they watched as a messenger reined his mount to a sliding halt.

“Sir,” the man exclaimed, “a patrol just captured three American cavalrymen from the First Baltimore Hussars. The patrol’s not far behind, bringing them here for interrogation. The lieutenant sent me ahead to tell you.”

Minutes later the three grim-faced Americans were standing before Ross, Cockburn, and Brooke, mouths clamped shut, eyes cast down in defiance.

Ross spoke to the sergeant in charge. “You’re from the First Baltimore Hussars?”

The man nodded once.

“Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Captain James Sterret.”

“Where is your regiment located right now?”

“Baltimore.”

“Which regiments are between this place and Baltimore? Where are they? How many? Who’s in command?”

The sergeant’s eyes were steady, unreadable. “There are twenty thousand troops in Baltimore. Armed and ready.”

“Militia?”

“Mostly.”

Ross tossed a hand up in contempt. “I don’t care if it rains militia! How many trained regulars?”

“I do not know.”

“Who’s in command?”

“General Samuel Smith.”

“Smith’s at Hampstead Hill?”

“Last I heard.”           

Ross glanced at Cockburn, then spoke to the lieutenant and his squad. “Take them away. Hold them as prisoners.”

None of the British officers saw the quick glance and the silent communication that passed between the three American prisoners. The British officers believed the road to Baltimore was clear of American forces until it reached Hampstead Hill, and the prisoners were not going to tell them otherwise. Not one of the British officers was aware of American brigadier general John Stricker and his command, dug in and waiting in ambush in the forest ahead.                

Ross turned back to Brooke and Cockburn as the squad started its prisoners back toward the main road.

“Our scouting patrols have confirmed most of what that sergeant just said. I don’t think we’re going to meet substantial resistance until we reach Hampstead Hill.” He spoke to Brooke. “Colonel, go on back and bring the balance of our forces here as soon as possible. We’re moving ahead at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Each of them felt the rise of tension as Brooke mounted his horse. It was coming—the long-awaited collision between the stubborn Baltimore defenders and the British who had sworn to punish them.

Ross and Cockburn called for their horses and gave their orders. With an advance scouting platoon moving ahead, they marched their command from the Gorsuch farm to Long Log Lane and turned west, toward Baltimore. They had covered two miles with Ross and Cockburn leading, mounted on their horses, when they heard the distant firing of muskets ahead.

Instantly Ross reined in his horse and turned his head to listen, eyes closed, trying to read the sounds. The shots were sporadic at first, then quickly they were continuous and heavy.

He turned to Cockburn. “The advance scouts are engaged up there! Follow me.”

He jammed his spurs home, and his horse reached a full gallop in four jumps with Cockburn straining to catch up. Ross held the reckless pace for more than half a mile through the dense forest that flashed by on both sides of Long Log Road before he burst into the open with flat fields stretching for more than five hundred yards ahead. He saw the crimson coats of his regulars facing the forest, firing and reloading and moving slowly ahead. He saw the gun flashes of American muskets and rifles moving back in the darkness of the woods, and he hunched forward over the neck of his laboring mount as he came in behind his men with but one thought flashing in his mind—The Americans should not be there—what have we run into?—who are they?

Then the sure knowledge hit him. Stricker! We’ve run into the advance guard of Stricker’s command! They were supposed to be back at Hampstead Hill!

Startled, he pulled his winded mount to a stop near the front of the British line and amid the din of musket and rifle fire and the whining of bullets, shouted to the captain in command.

“How many of them?”

“I don’t know, sir. One minute there was nothing, and the next minute those woods came alive with musket and rifle fire.”

For what seemed an eternity, Ross peered ahead at the American line. It was only partially visible. The greater part was indistinct shadows and the yellow winking of rifle muzzles in the dark density of the woods. Ross made his estimate of the numbers.

“That has to be some of Stricker’s troops,” he shouted, “and there are too many of them! We’ll need a stronger force! I’m going back to bring up the main column!”

With the captain watching, Ross started to turn his horse when the captain heard the hit and the grunt in the same instant and saw Ross take the shock as the rifle bullet punched into his chest. Ross buckled forward and pitched headfirst from the saddle and hit the ground rolling, and the horse reared and threw its head, pivoted and started to run back, away from the gunfire.

For an instant the captain stood frozen, horrified. Ross was down! Their leader, down! In an instant he was on his knees beside Ross, and he rolled him onto his back. He saw the great red gout spreading on his chest, and he saw the mouth sagged open and the eyes half closed and then other men were clamoring around him, and they seized the limp body and lifted it and started toward the rear of the battle line. Soldiers on all sides stopped to stare as they passed, and those coming forward slowed and gaped in disbelief.

Far to the rear, urging the main body of the command forward, Brooke saw the cluster of men and knew something was violently wrong and started forward on his horse. He had covered thirty yards when he passed Lieutenant George De Lacy Evans standing white-faced, nearly disoriented, and Evans called to him, “It’s General Ross, sir! He is fallen!”

Ross! Fallen! Brooke pushed his way to the center of the gathered soldiers and stared down at the lifeless body with his brain numb, unable to accept it. He had no concept of how long he stood thus, staring down, before he raised his head and looked at those around him. The sweating soldiers were staring at him, and suddenly he realized that he was now their commanding officer!

Instinct and British discipline came welling up inside Brooke. He licked at dry lips and heard himself giving orders to his officers as he pointed to them in succession.

“Major, get a detail and move General Ross to the ambulance at the rear!

“Major, go forward and tell the officers to prepare to march. Tell them that is what General Ross would expect of us, and we’re going to do it!

“Captain, get my horse and my aides! I’m riding to the head of this command and we’re advancing at once!”

With Brooke mounted and leading, the entire force moved forward, across the big open field near the Gorsuch farm, firing, reloading, firing, with the Americans steadily fading back into the woods in an organized withdrawal, returning fire, setting the farm buildings and haystacks ablaze to hinder the British, slowly giving ground while their deadly rifle fire continued knocking British soldiers to the ground.

With the sun setting, Stricker continued the withdrawal to avoid a fight in the night, while purple storm clouds mounted up. In deep dusk a chill, steady rain came pelting, and by midnight the roads and fields were a quagmire of mud. Men in the trenches were standing ankle-deep in water and mud, huddled, watching, protecting as best they could their gunpowder from the rain.

Stricker gave orders, and under cover of rain and the black of night, his force withdrew toward Hampstead Hill, cutting trees and dragging them into the road to slow the British and their caissons of mounted cannon. The rain held, and in the soggy gray of early morning both armies heard the first sound of cannon being fired from British ships anchored in the shallow waters off Fort McHenry.

It was approaching midmorning when Brooke caught his first sight of the battle lines and the gun emplacements and the trenches Samuel Smith had established to defend the city, and Brooke stopped in his tracks. He turned to his aide, pointing.

“I thought Stricker was the main force! He was not! There must be eleven thousand men ahead of us. Over a hundred cannon! Look at those roads and open fields we must traverse—mud! Our troops and cannon would mire down and become sitting targets! A daylight attack is out of the question. We’ll send scouts out to probe their lines for the possibility of a night attack.”

Brooke gave orders, and his scouts moved off the road, into the woods bordering Philadelphia Road, slipping, slogging through the mud to within one mile of the American lines at the edge of the city. Dead ahead, through the rain, they could see the Americans in the trenches and count their cannon, and they saw the Americans studying their every move through telescopes. The British skirmishers moved to their right, and the Americans followed, then back to their left, and the Americans were there also—waiting.

Without a word, the scouts returned to Brooke and made their report with the boom of the cannon on the British ships to the south sounding in the background.

“Sir, there are thousands of them, and they’re watching every move we make. We moved twice, hoping to draw some of them out of their trenches, but they did not move. I believe they mean to make their stand right where they are. A daylight attack would be a serious mistake.”

For a time Brooke paced, trying to conceive a plan to attack the American lines, and there was none. In frustration he reached the only conclusion he could.

“We will remain where we are for now. We’ll have to wait until the fleet reduces the city’s defenses with their cannon. Then we will make our attack. Tell the men to get what rest they can and some food.”

Brooke’s jaw was set as he peered west, toward the river and Fort McHenry. Where’s Cochrane? When will he take Fort McHenry?

On board the Cockchafer, Cochrane lowered his telescope and turned to his first mate.

“Something’s wrong with Ross and his forces. Their guns are silent.” For a time he paced and considered before he turned and gave orders.

“Have the fleet take the positions previously described for bombardment of Fort McHenry.”

Semaphore flags went up the mainmast, and with the dusk coming on, the British gunboats began to slowly maneuver into battle positions. Through the night, with the rain dwindling, the lighter craft moved ahead of the heavier men-of-war into the shallow waters and avoided the log boom and the hulks of the ships sunk by the Americans to block the British advance. Carefully they came, silently taking their places in the dark of night. The frigates Seahorse, Surprise, and Severn with their brigs and tenders, remained five miles from Fort McHenry. The bomb ships Meteor, Aetna, Devastation, Terror, and Volcano, and the rocket ship Erebus, escorted by the brig Cockchafer, took up positions just over two miles from the fort.           

In the early dawn, with the rain thinned, the British vessels were all anchored in place. Cochrane drew his pocket watch and read the time. Exactly five o’clock am, September 13, 1814. Cochrane turned and nodded to his second in command, and the semaphores went up the mainmast with the message: “Fire for effect!”

The guns of the bomb ship Volcano thundered, and the British commanders watched through telescopes while the heavy shot raised geysers forty feet high in the water, short of Fort McHenry. Again Cochrane gave orders, and the British fleet moved half a mile closer to shore, broadside to Fort McHenry, and again dropped anchor.

When they were in place, Cochrane gave the order:

“Commence firing!”

Every gun in the British fleet facing Fort McHenry bucked and roared. The sound and the concussion shook foundations of buildings in Baltimore as the cannonballs and bombs and rockets streaked toward Fort McHenry, and the British seamen heard the distant explosions and saw the orange flames and black smoke erupt into the overcast clouds and the drizzle of rain as the bombardment ripped into the American defenses in and around the fort.

The British were reloading when the guns of Fort McHenry blasted their answer, and the crews on the British gunboats hunched down behind their guns, waiting for the barrage to hit. Geysers leaped thirty feet in the air all through the British fleet, while some cannonballs shattered railings and tore through the riggings. Aboard the Cockchafer, Admiral Cochrane peered up at the black, ragged holes in the mainsail and gave orders.

The entire British fleet hoisted anchor and moved back to a range where the American guns could not reach the British ships, but the heavy guns of the British bomb ships could still reach the fort.

The prologue was ended. The time had come. Cochrane turned to his second in command. “Commence firing, and do not stop until Fort McHenry is utterly destroyed.”

The semaphores went up the mainmast, and moments later every gun that could be brought to bear on the distant fort fired. Flames and white smoke filled the air, and the constant roar and concussion shook Baltimore in the distance. Rockets streaked through the air. Bombs detonated above the fort to leave ugly black splotches in the sky and blow chunks of white-hot metal onto everything below. Cannonballs tore the ground all around the fort while some dropped inside to smash anything they hit.

Standing on the parapet of the fort, Major Armistead shouted his orders.

“Cease fire! Cease fire! The British are out of range of our guns. Conserve your ammunition.”

The American gunners took cover behind and beneath their guns and waited, heads bowed, teeth gritted, hands clapped over their ears to soften the deafening sounds of the heaviest bombardment any American had ever heard. Slowly, as the morning wore on, the skies over the fort filled with clusters of black smoke and the trails of streaking rockets and clouds of gray smoke from the fires, inside and outside the walls of the fort.

In late morning, Admiral Cochrane extended his telescope and for a long time studied the distant view of the battered walls, searching for a white flag, but there was none. He shook his head in disbelief. What is Armistead doing?—He must know we can bring the entire fort and all his men to the ground—Why is he sacrificing them?

On board the British bomb ships, the British crews were stripped to the waist, sweat dripping, ears ringing as they continued the loading and firing of the cannon. Gun barrels overheated, and heat waves rose shimmering. Seamen threw buckets of river water on the guns, sizzling, turning to steam instantly, to cool them enough that they would not ignite the next load of powder while it was being loaded. Gun crews were trotting into the hold of the ships to carry barrels of powder and rockets and cannonballs to the gun positions to keep the batteries supplied and firing.

At midday, Cochrane again raised his telescope to study the fort, and again he shook his head. For a time he disappeared into his cabin to write a message, then returned to the deck to find his first mate.

“Have that delivered to General Ross on shore, earliest.”

“A message for General Ross, sir?”

“Yes. I doubt we have ever mounted a bombardment as heavy as the one now in progress, and I see no sign of surrender. If we cannot take Fort McHenry, we cannot provide cannon support for General Ross if he attacks Boston. If the Americans in Baltimore are of the same resolve as those at Fort McHenry, taking the city might cost more in British lives than it is worth. I would like an opinion from General Ross.”

“Yes, sir.” The first mate gave orders, and a longboat was launched. An hour later it returned, and the lieutenant in command reported.

“Sir, General Ross is a casualty. He is dead.”

Cochrane’s mouth dropped open. “Dead?”

“Some time ago. Colonel Brooke has assumed command of the ground forces.”

Admiral Cochrane took his written message, drew a line through the name of General Robert Ross and beneath it wrote, “Colonel Arthur Brooke.”

“Deliver it,” he said. Less than an hour later the lieutenant again reported and handed a brief written message to Cochrane, signed by Brooke.

“Unless Fort McHenry is taken, committing my command to attack Baltimore would be disastrous.”

Cochrane stuffed the note inside his tunic, and the thunder of the cannon and the rockets continued without pause.

On the deck of a sloop not far behind the ship Cockchafer where Cochrane stood on the quarterdeck, the Americans Francis Scott Key, John Skinner, and Dr. William Beanes paced the bow, sick in their hearts at the sight to the northeast. The air was filled with white cannon smoke from the British guns and the black trails of countless rockets. On the distant shore, Fort McHenry was lost in a cloud of dirty smoke, and the guns of the fort were silent. The minds of the three American prisoners were filled with their worst fears—Is the fort destroyed?—Are the defenders all dead?—or gone?—Have we lost Baltimore?

There were no answers, and they continued to pace, sick with dread, while the British guns continued to roar.

Inside Fort McHenry, Major George Armistead stood outside the door of his headquarters on the edge of the parade ground, where he had been through most of the day. Again and again, he turned to look at the powder magazine, a sizeable red-brick building with a wooden shingle roof, in one corner of the fort. It held three hundred barrels of gunpowder, and only he knew that it was not bomb-proof. If a British cannonball were to ignite the gunpowder inside, the explosion would blow Fort McHenry and everything, everyone inside, into oblivion.

While he stood there, three huge mortar shells landed inside the fort. A woman water carrier, running with water to a waiting gun crew went down and did not move. An officer and the enlisted man next to him were blown ten feet, sprawling, still.

Then, while Armistead watched, a cannonball smashed through the roof of the powder magazine, and for a moment Armistead stood in breathless horror waiting for the blast that would blow the walls of the fort into kindling and kill everyone in sight. A second passed, then another, then another, while Armistead stood staring, waiting, and then he began to breathe again and relief flooded through his entire system.

The British cannonball was a dud! It had not exploded!

Armistead ran toward the magazine, shouting to the nearest soldiers.

“Move the gunpowder! Move it! Scatter the barrels in small numbers all over the fort!”

Soldiers broke from cover, battered down the locked door of the magazine, and within minutes the gunpowder supply was stacked under cover at locations along all four walls.

Toward the rear of the fort, a bandy rooster had escaped the partially destroyed regimental hen house, and through the smoke and the terrifying explosions of rockets and bombs, had scurried to an open ditch to take refuge. The disoriented bird was beyond all understanding of what had happened to its dull, repetitive life inside the fort. Gone were the morning reveille, the women gathering the eggs, the grain in the feed troughs, the daily drill of the soldiers on the parade ground— replaced by men and women running in all directions in what appeared to be total chaos, the thunder of rockets and exploding cannonballs, and the strike that had torn down part of the chicken yard, sending hens scattering—the world had gone insane!

The colorful, feisty little bird had had enough! He scrambled out of the ditch and perched himself on top of the dirt bank, threw back his head, and crowed out his anger and his frustration for the world to hear!

A dozen soldiers crouched behind anything that would protect them heard the sound and raised their heads in astonishment. A crowing rooster? In the midst of the worst bombardment in history?

The little bird peered at them with his beady eyes and threw back his head and cut loose again.

A soldier nearby grinned, and the man next to him chuckled, and the laughter spread.

“Little friend,” one soldier called, “if we both survive this, you get an extra ration of grain.”

It was past midafternoon when Admiral Cochrane again took his place on the quarterdeck of the Cockchafer and carefully glassed the fort. He could see little of the structure through the smoke and haze and the light rain that continued to fall. He collapsed his telescope and for a time was lost in thought. Then he raised his head and called orders to his first mate.

“I believe we have crippled them. Order the Devastation, the Volcano, and the Erebus to close on the fort and increase their fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

Minutes later the huge Devastation, followed by her two sister bomb ships, hoisted anchor and began their move toward the fort.

Inside the fort, a gun crew on the parapet peered outward through the smoke and the light rain and shielded their eyes for a moment before they shouted to the nearest officer.

“They’re moving in, sir. There!”

Within moments the American gun crews, excited at the chance to fire back, had elevated their gun muzzles and were waiting with smoking linstocks for the order to fire. The officer in charge held up his hand, holding them off, while he gauged the distance, waiting, waiting. And then he dropped his hand as he shouted, “Fire!”

Every American gun blasted, and cannonballs ripped through the rigging of the Devastation. The railing of the Volcano was smashed, and she was hulled twice. Immediately, the Erebus was near totally disabled and survived only because the frigate Severn came to tow her out of range. The Devastation and the Volcano turned about and retreated out of the reach of the American guns.

It was clear to every man in the British fleet that whatever their bombardment had accomplished, it had not yet disabled the American guns, nor had it damaged the spirit and pride of their crews. The British seamen shook their heads in grudging admiration.

Cochrane watched in disbelief. How many tons of rockets and shells and cannonballs had they rained on Fort McHenry? A thousand? How could a wooden fort withstand such an assault?

In frustration, with deep dusk settling and heavy rain now pouring, he ordered landing parties to go ashore, probing, to be certain what Brooke was doing with his land forces and to determine whether or not the American lines defending Baltimore were still entrenched, waiting.

The landing parties returned in the black of night, shot up, bearing their dead and wounded. Their report was clear. Brooke is not going to move without naval support. The American lines are in place, standing in mud up above their ankles, waiting, and full of fight.

Cochrane gave the only order he could to the British fleet: “Continue firing!”

The heavy British guns continued the bombardment. The muzzle blasts of their guns lighted up the night sky, and their rockets made fiery streaks through the rain, while the bombs bursting above the fort showed the gaping, splintered holes where the cannonballs had smashed through. But it was still standing!

On the deck of the sloop behind the Cockchafer, soaked to the skin, squinting in the rain, the Americans, Key, Skinner, and Beanes, stood at the rail, transfixed, watching the British warships rain destruction on the fort as never before in history. They saw the yellow fire trails of the rockets and the white bursts of bombs over the fort, and they listened to the continuous roar of the big guns, staring, unable to believe that Armistead had not surrendered rather than face total destruction.

They stood in the rain into the night, watching, hoping, while the British guns continued—their only evidence that the fort had not fallen. The rain came heavier, and still they paced and watched and listened, not knowing the fate of the fort, only knowing that the British bombardment was unrelenting. Time became meaningless. They were unaware that dawn was approaching until the first hint of the separation of the heavens from the earth came in the east, and then they could see the faint line of the horizon.

Key stood frozen to the rail as the dull light strengthened in the rain, and he could see the dim outline of the fort.

Was it still standing?

Something fluttered above the black outline, and then it took form and shape, and Key gasped when he understood it was the flag! Armistead had raised the largest flag in the United States above the fort! Thirty-two by forty-three feet! Each of the fifteen stars was two feet from point to point, and the red and white stripes were clearly visible as the monstrous flag furled and unfurled in the breeze. Every man on every ship in the British fleet could see it, and to a man they understood Armistead’s message:

“We’re still here! We’ve taken close to eighteen hundred rockets and bombs and cannonballs. We’ve been through the heaviest bombardment in naval history! We’ve lost men and women, and we’ve been hurt, but we’re still here, beneath the biggest flag in the country!”

Key’s heart was pounding in his chest. He wiped at his eyes and then reached inside his coat for an envelope and a pencil, and began to write the thoughts that came flooding from deep within.

Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

He paused for a moment, then catching sight again of the great flag waving over the fort, he continued to write, revising as he went, scratching out some words and rearranging lines, as the second stanza took shape:

On the shore, dimly seen thru the mists of the deep,

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;

’Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh, long may it wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Reflecting on the heroic defenders of Baltimore, Key’s breast was filled with patriotic emotion, and he quickly penned:

Oh, thus be it ever, when free men shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation!

Blest with vic’try and peace, may the heav’n rescued land

Praise the Pow’r that hath made and preserved us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

In the gray of the rainy dawn, a longboat thumped against the hull of the Cockchafer, and a dripping lieutenant scaled the rope ladder up to her deck to face Admiral Cochrane and his first mate standing by.

“Sir, a message from Colonel Brooke.”

Cochrane unfolded the message, read it, read it again, and nodded to the young man. “You may return to Colonel Brooke. Tell him I understand. I will meet him at the place we landed his troops near North Point. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. You are.” He turned and disappeared over the rail, back to his longboat.

The first mate, with rain running in a stream from his hat, stopped the admiral.

“Sir, did I understand we are meeting Colonel Brooke and his ground forces?”

Cochrane stared at him for a moment. “You did. He has withdrawn. There will be no attack on Baltimore. He requests that we meet him to pick up his army at the place we put them ashore, far back near North Point. Give the orders by lantern code and by semaphores. All ships are to break off the engagement, weigh anchor, and follow us.”

In the overcast and the rain, the lanterns of the Cockchafer blinked out the message while the semaphores went up the mainmast, and the British fleet weighed anchor. One by one the ships fell into formation to abandon all thoughts of taking Fort McHenry or Baltimore and followed their flagship back down the Patapsco River to North Point, where they were to load their army back onto the troop transports and leave, a dispirited and unsuccessful army and navy.

True to his word, Admiral Cochrane ordered the release of Francis Scott Key, John Skinner, and Dr. William Beanes, and the three men made their way back to their homes.

At Fort McHenry, when Major Armistead was certain the British retreat was real, the surviving occupants of the fort went into near hysteria with relief. Hats were thrown into the air amid shouts, and a spontaneous celebration lasted through most of the day, despite the rain.

Half a dozen soldiers went to the ditch at the rear of the fort and found the bandy rooster. They returned him to the hen house with the rest of the chickens and very carefully rationed out two-days’ worth of wheat and grain, and chuckled as the colorful little fellow strutted about, pecking away at it.

On the parapet, Major Armistead watched with a deep feeling of pride and satisfaction in what his people had done. They had defied the concentrated power of the mighty British army and navy, and with every expectation to be crushed, had by some miracle survived.

His thoughts sobered and deepened—We turned them, and we hurt them. But they are not defeated. Where will they strike next? And with what force? Have we won the battle of Fort McHenry and Baltimore only to face the loss of the war?

He straightened and started down the stairs to the shell-pocked parade ground.

Only time will tell.        

Notes

The names of all officers appearing in this chapter, both British and American, too numerous to list in detail, and the part each played in this entire episode, are accurate. The geographic locations listed and the names of those locations, also too numerous to list in detail, and the events that took place at those locations, are also accurate. The names of all ships listed, and their participation, are correct.

The participation of Francis Scott Key and John Skinner in obtaining the release of Dr. William Beanes is correctly set forth. The two men were held prisoner during the bombardment of Fort McHenry for the reasons described. The poem written by Key as he saw the huge American flag waving above Fort McHenry the morning of September fourteenth became the American national anthem, “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Mary Young Pickersgill was commissioned by General Armistead to create the huge flag that was flown above Fort McHenry in the stormy dawn hours of September 14, 1814, as proof the fort was still standing and had not surrendered. The flag was in fact thirty-two feet by forty-three feet, with stars two feet between the points. At a cost of $405.90, it was sewn by Mrs. Pickersgill and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Caroline, on the floor of the local malt brewery—the only place in town big enough for the work.

Between fifteen hundred and eighteen hundred rockets, bombs, and cannonballs were fired by the British on Fort McHenry, the heaviest naval bombardment in history to that date.

The rather humorous incident of the Reverend John Gruber of the First Methodist Church on Light Street in Baltimore, wherein he dismissed his congregation to take their places in the defenses of Baltimore on Sunday, September 11, 1814, with his prayer for King George, is accurate. His prayer for the king is a verbatim quotation.

A carronade is a short, light cannon, with less range than the heavier guns.

The comic incident of the little bandy rooster taking exception to the British bombardment, including the fact the little fellow survived and received a double ration of grain, is historically accurate.

The miraculous incident of the British cannonball hitting the powder magazine inside Fort McHenry and failing to explode is also accurate.

The reader is advised that despite its unusual length, this chapter presents only the core events of the British effort to take Baltimore. There were many, many more officers involved, and many more military skirmishes and events; however, including them would have extended and complicated this chapter far too much.          

See Whitehorne, The Battle for Baltimore 1814, pp. 159–94; Sheads, Fort McHenry, pp. 33–43, and see the maps, pp. 36 and 39; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 202–03; Wills, James Madison, p. 140; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 427–428; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 270–71.