THE BRITISH WERE IN the Patuxent, Commodore Barney hurriedly wrote Secretary of the Navy Jones at 9:00 A.M., Friday, the 19th. More than that, the Commodore’s lookout reported an intriguing tidbit, apparently picked up from one of those county squires on such good terms with Cockburn. The Admiral, it was said, planned to destroy Barney’s flotilla and “dine in Washington on Sunday.”
By 2:00 P.M. the capital knew. Secretary Jones ordered Barney to take the flotilla as high upstream as possible, burn it if the British approached, and fall back with his men on the city. General Winder galloped up Pennsylvania Avenue to confer with Secretary of War Armstrong. A courier rushed off to overtake Monroe, the reconnoitering Secretary of State, who planned to start his scouting at Annapolis: forget that, head for Benedict.
Washington boiled with excitement, yet no one really believed Cockburn’s boast that he’d soon be dining there. Winder’s favorite enemy objective remained Annapolis. Jones warned Barney, “It may be a feint, to mask a real design on Baltimore.” Armstrong felt sure that was just what it was. When John P. Van Ness—still trying to get some action on the capital’s defenses—predicted a really serious blow, the Secretary replied, “Oh yes! By God, they would not come with such a fleet without meaning to strike somewhere, but they certainly will not come here—what the Devil will they do here?”
Van Ness offered some thoughts on this, but Armstrong brushed him off: “No, no! Baltimore is the place, Sir; that is of so much more consequence.”
Wherever the British went, men were needed more desperately than ever. Bad news had just arrived from Pennsylvania. Winder learned that he couldn’t count on any of the 5,000 men he expected from that state. The old militia law had expired, and the new one wasn’t in effect yet. He issued a ringing appeal, calling on all volunteers to “rally around the standard of their country.”
Meanwhile expresses galloped off with new orders for Sam Smith’s command in Baltimore. Brigadier General Tobias Stansbury was told to head for Washington with his two mobilized regiments of county militia; Brigadier General John Strieker was ordered to send down his elite 5th Regiment of city volunteers, his rifle battalion and “two of your most active companies of artillery.” Suspecting that Strieker might hold back a little, Winder assured him that the British weren’t heading for Baltimore—quite a promise, considering the commanding general’s own uncertainty on the point.
Secretary of the Navy Jones pitched in with calls to Commodore John Rodgers in Philadelphia to hurry south with 300 seamen … to Commodore David Porter in New York to come with as many men as he could collect … to the Marine commandant Lieutenant Colonel Franklin Wharton in Washington to send “as many Marines as can possibly be spared from Headquarters” to join Barney’s flotillamen.
But the most immediate source of help was the District’s own militia. Already called out twice this summer, they were again ordered to report on the evening of the 19th. Squeezing into their tight trousers, jamming on their shakos, they assembled at the foot of Capitol Hill.
Perhaps it was due to haste, but they were never in worse shape. Some had no shoes; others lacked weapons. Captain John J. Stull’s company of riflemen had not a rifle among them. General Winder looked at the slipshod ranks. He needed men right away—but these? After a quick inspection, they were dismissed with orders to report back fully equipped in the morning.
At 9:00 A.M. on the 20th Colonel William Brent’s 2d Regiment reassembled on the Capitol grounds, and around noon Colonel George Magruder’s 1st Regiment joined up—but this time they lacked a commander. General Van Ness knew he was smarter than Winder and thought he outranked him too. After all, he was a major general on the militia and Winder only a brigadier in the regulars. When Armstrong and Madison overruled him on a technicality, Van Ness resigned in disgust.
Brigadier General Walter Smith took over, and the men waited another two hours while the high command decided the next move. A new message had just arrived from Barney, giving first word of actual British landings. They had been coming ashore at Benedict since noon the previous day, but there was no sign of further movements. Lacking more precise information, it seemed best simply to head east for the Wood Yard and let the enemy make the next move.
As the men waited and gossiped, news suddenly spread of a great victory in Canada—a bloody repulse of the British at Fort Erie. Major George Peter’s artillery fired a salute, and infantry muskets exploded in a noisy feu de joi. Spirits soared even higher as a special Proclamation from General Winder was read to all. Full of stirring words, it assured them that thousands of volunteers were on the way to “teach our haughty foe that freemen are never unprepared to expel from their soil the insolent foot of the invader.”
Three mighty cheers, and at 2:00 P.M. the ranks formed and started off—Captain John Davidson’s Union Light Infantry with its cheerful band … Captain Benjamin Burch and his Irish artillerymen … Captain Stall’s riflemen, still without rifles … some 1,070 men altogether. They didn’t look very professional; but there was a quality, nevertheless, that caught the independent American spirit. The very ideal of the citizen soldier seemed embodied in amateurs like Sergeant John Kearney, a prosperous grocer, or Lieutenant Christian Hines, who ran an up-and-coming bakery with his brother.
Moving east from Capitol Hill, they marched down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Eastern Branch of the Potomac River. Here they crossed the lower of the two bridges that led toward the Maryland countryside. Taking the road to the Wood Yard, they continued another four miles, then halted for the night. At this point all trace of glory vanished, and confusion once more took over. There was no sign of their tents or camp equipment, and most of these clerks and tradesmen had to sleep in an open field. A thousand flints were meant to be on hand for distribution, but only 200 turned up … meaning 800 men couldn’t fire their guns.
Back in Washington, General Winder’s volunteer aide Colonel McLane tried to trace the 300 axes his “pioneers” were meant to use to block roads and bridges as the British advanced. The Quartermaster kept putting him off, until finally McLane gave up. He announced he was off to the Wood Yard and told the Quartermaster to send along the axes as soon as they turned up. Ultimately they were sent to Bladensburg by mistake.
Thirty-five miles east of Washington, James Monroe, the Secretary of State-turned-scout, was having an equally frustrating day. He had neglected to bring a spyglass. Reaching a hill three miles from Benedict around 10:00 A.M., he studied the Patuxent and squinted in vain at the jumble of masts and sails. He could neither count the ships nor estimate the number of men swarming ashore. At 1:00 P.M. he sent a letter to the President full of vague observations. “The general idea,” he summed up, “is that Washington is their object, but of this I can form no opinion at this time.”
Lieutenants Burrell, Codd and Gleig of the 85th Foot were just starting a lunch of pig with goose and a couple of fowl, when the bugles sounded assembly all over the British camp at Benedict. It was always that way. For the better part of two days they had been completely idle—getting the feel of grass again, listening to “the crickets at night, staring in wonder at the blaze of stars and fireflies. During the morning they gingerly ventured forth … rounded up their meal from the neighboring barnyards .. . and now, just as they were about to enjoy it, they had to get moving again.
Slowly the men fell in, forming a column of three brigades. The first consisted of the lightly equipped 85th Foot and the light companies of the other regiments; the second, of the 4th and 44th Foot; and the third, of the 21st Foot and the Royal Marines. Adding some drivers, artillerymen and miscellaneous units, they totaled perhaps 4,500 men.
Once formed, the column swung onto a sandy road leading north and halted for further orders. At this point there was a commotion to the rear and General Ross rode up with his aides and staff. No signals—nothing planned—but a great cheer went up, rolling along the ranks. Surprised and pleased, the General doffed his hat and bowed to his soldiers. Then the command to march, and at 4 P.M., Saturday, August 20, the column began moving north toward Nottingham, about 20 miles upstream.
It was, in fact, a two-pronged advance. The road ran parallel to the Patuxent, and as Ross led his men along, Admiral Cockburn kept pace up the river with a miniature fleet of armed boats, tenders and other small craft. These were loaded with seamen and marines from most of the ships at Benedict. Nothing official was said about the objective, but by now nearly everyone ‘in the British force knew that Barney was supposed to be at Nottingham. Excitement rose at the prospect of early action.
So far, there was still no sign of the enemy at all. It seemed almost incredible that they had landed, camped for two days, and now were pushing into the heart of the country—all without a shot fired. There was no sign of American troops; in fact, little sign of anybody. Occasionally a gentleman farmer would welcome them, or some old crone would stare at them from a cottage door. More often the houses were empty … some with white sheets hanging from the windows, limp in the August heat.
Perhaps it was just as well. In some ways the British were completely unprepared for their adventure. Admiral Cochrane had sent orders ahead to collect as many horses as possible, but Cockburn had been so engrossed in his raids and prize goods that he completely neglected to do so. Now there were only three or four personal mounts brought along by the staff from Europe.
This meant no cavalry at all for scouting purposes—easily fatal if they met serious opposition. Nor were there any horses for the artillery. Except for two 3-pounders and two little howitzers that could be drawn by hand, all the other guns had to be left behind—that too could be fatal on meeting a resolute enemy.
To ensure at least some warning, Ross deployed skirmishers far ahead and to the right and left of his marching column. Just ahead went an advance guard of three companies. Then came the main column of three brigades, and finally a rear guard and more skirmishers. As it crawled up the road, the force looked rather like some longish bug full of feelers and antennae.
It was hard, hot work. The skirmishers crashed through thickets and tangles of underbrush. The main column choked through a cloud of stifling dust. The sailors who drew the cannon sweated and cursed the fate that brought them to this. No one had light clothing; packs weighed a ton; the day was stifling; and everyone was soft from the weeks they had spent cooped up on the transports. Stragglers fell out by the score, breaking into houses and lapping up water, cider, whiskey—anything—despite warnings that all of it might be poisoned. After six miles Ross decided to camp for the night.
Now they faced a new ordeal. Toward midnight great thunderheads blacked out the stars, lightning streaked across the sky, and the rain fell in torrents. It was the men’s introduction to the full violence of an American thunderstorm. Fascinated, they almost forgot their discomfort.
Dawn, August 21, they were on their way again. Soon the scenery changed from the farms and open fields of the first day’s march to thick, trackless woods that seemed to stretch forever. The men were used to the neatly defined landscapes of Europe; the sheer space of America was overwhelming.
There was still no sign of enemy troops, but certain of the country people quietly warned Ross to watch put for an ambush. Hearing there was an American rifle company ahead, Lieutenant Gleig rushed with a party of men to the spot. Too late, but he did catch a glint of metal a little deeper in the woods. Deploying his force, he closed in … and found sitting under a tree two men in black coats, armed with muskets and bayonets. They started up; then seeing they were surrounded, one quickly turned to the other and said innocently, “Stop, John, till the gentlemen pass.”
Gleig couldn’t help laughing, but the men played it straight, insisting they were simple country folk out to, shoot squirrels. The Lieutenant asked whether their bayonets were for charging the squirrels. Then he hustled them off—the British army’s first prisoners of war.
That afternoon the column had another brush, interrupting a pause for a meal. Captain Charles Grey of the 85th was happily contemplating a boiled hare, when shots were heard up forward. Everyone rushed to the scene, caught a glimpse of some American riflemen scattering through the woods. It was a situation made for cavalry, and in their frustration three or four mounted officers, led by General Ross himself, made a brief dash in futile pursuit. A rash thing to do, but the General was always putting himself in dangerous situations—it was a mark of his leadership.
About 5:00 P.M. they reached Nottingham, only to find Barney was gone. He had moved his flotilla farther up the river. The town itself, a neat village of clapboard houses, was completely empty—so recently evacuated, bread was still baking in the ovens. But as Cockburn’s boats approached, they did have one small brush with the enemy. Some American cavalrymen appeared, fired a few shots, then rode off. Ross’s infantry rushed to the scene just too late.
James Monroe galloped out of Nottingham just in time—but at last he had found the British troops. Until this moment the Secretary of State’s brief career as a scout had been anything but productive. Unable to do much without a spyglass on the afternoon of the 20th, he had gone to Charlotte Hall for the night. This was a small place below Benedict, and the net effect was to put the British between himself and Washington—perhaps the worst thing a scout could do.
He recognized this early on the 21st, when he went back to the river—still below Benedict—and saw no enemy troops at all. His original idea had been to continue south to the Potomac and see what was doing there, but now all thought of that was gone. Fearing the British were already on the direct road from Benedict to Washington, he raced to a point that would intercept them. But again, no sign of anybody. Next, cross-country to Nottingham to see if they might be there. But again, no one at all.
Actually, he had ridden completely around them, which became clear late in the afternoon when he saw the first British barges rowing up the Patuxent. There were only three in sight, and he excitedly scribbled a message to Winder to send 500 to 600 men. “If you could not save the town, you may perhaps cut off their retreat or rear.”
But he wrote too soon. In a few minutes the river was alive with barges, boats and tenders. At 5:30P.M.he added a hasty postscript that 30 or 40 were in view. His cavalry escort began firing at them, but they swept ever closer, and now a column of troops could be seen marching along the bank too. No time to wait any longer. The little group of American horsemen wheeled and galloped off.
Riding west a few miles, Monroe learned that Winder was at the Wood Yard, seven miles farther on, still collecting the army. He hurried there and clomped into the General’s quarters shortly after 8:00. He was soon followed by Colonel William D. Beall, a Maryland Militia officer who had also been watching the enemy. But it turned out the two couldn’t agree on the size of the enemy force: Monroe thought 6,000, Beall 4,000.
At this point the Secretary of State, exhausted by a long day in the saddle, lay down to rest; Beall went off to his command at Annapolis; and Winder was left to contemplate the quality of his intelligence system. No one had dared take a really good look—generally just a quick peek through the bushes, then a scramble from danger. Estimates varied wildly from Beall’s 4,000 to 12,000 or more claimed by some of the local people.
Fortunately, Winder’s own force was building up: 240 Maryland Militia from their camp at Bladensburg … 300 regulars up from Piscataway … Lieutenant Colonel Jacint Laval’s 125 dragoons down from Carlisle, Pennsylvania … Captain Samuel Miller’s 120 Marines and five heavy guns from Washington during the afternoon. Counting the District of Columbia Militia, the General now had over 1,800 men, some cavalry, 20 pieces of artillery—maybe enough to do something.
But what? So much depended on where the British were going. Through most of the day Baltimore remained a strong possibility. Winder even sent a message to General Stansbury and Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Sterett, hurrying south with separate contingents of Maryland Militia: hold at some half-way point so as not to leave the city exposed. But after learning the British were at Nottingham, the General had a new fear: they would strike directly west to the Potomac, attack Fort Washington from the rear, and join their squadron coming up the river. Then the combined force would move on the capital, leaving him completely out of position.
At 10 P.M. Winder fired off a new set of instructions to Stansbury and Sterett: forget the orders to hold; keep coming as far as Bladensburg. Here they would leave Baltimore more exposed, but be in a far better position to defend Washington. If only he knew what the British general really planned to do …
General Ross just couldn’t make up his mind, as the British force passed the night of August 21 at Nottingham. Handling an independent command for the first time, he had come this far only with Admiral Cockburn’s prodding. It was the Admiral who said it would be easy to get Barney; who talked up the idea of a quick blow at Washington. Ross had followed along, but he was quite aware of Earl Bathurst’s orders, which strictly enjoined him “not to engage in any extended operations at a distance from the coast.”
Now he was 20 miles from the fleet, 40 miles from the Bay—and still he hadn’t caught up with Barney. His orders also authorized him to steer clear of any operation which might discredit his troops with failure or “expose them to loss disproportionate to the advantage which it may be the object of the attack to attain.” With no cavalry, little artillery and uncertain intelligence—with signs of the enemy increasing—might not that moment be at hand?
Coming ashore from the boats anchored off Nottingham, Cockburn learned of the General’s doubts and quickly went to work on him. With Barney practically in their grasp, the Admiral argued, they couldn’t turn back now.” He was always a good persuader; early on the morning of the 22nd the wavering Ross came back into line.
At 2 A.M. on the 22nd the drums beat reveille in the American camp at the Wood Yard. Not knowing where the British would go next, General Winder had decided to seek them out. The men sleepily fell in, and after one of those long army waits, the General formed an advance corps of the regulars, Colonel Laval’s cavalry, and 300 of the best militia under Major George Peter. With the rest of the army following in support, they set off at sunrise down the road toward Nottingham and the enemy.
Ahead of everyone rode General Winder with James Monroe. Five miles and they stopped at the ample farmhouse of Benjamin Oden, a loyal Madisonian who had actually given his cattle to Winder rather than hold them for selling to the British. Just ahead lay a fork in the road. Here the route from the Wood Yard, Washington and the west joined another from Upper Marlboro and the north to form a single road into Nottingham.
It was an important junction to control. Winder sent out cavalry scouts and waited for his advance to arrive. Twenty minutes, and he knew he was too late. The British were coming up the road from Nottingham and would certainly reach the fork before his own force. After that, it all depended on which road they took. If they turned right to Upper Marlboro, they were going for’ Barney and maybe on north. If left, they were heading for the Wood Yard and the west—including Fort Washington and the capital itself.
As General Ross’s men tramped toward the fork, the mood was almost festive. After a very slow start, they had left Nottingham about 7:00 A.M. and marched north through a shady woods, laughing and joking as occasional soldiers slipped out of ranks to chase a stray pig or turkey. The road gradually slanted away from the river; so they were now out of touch with Cockburn’s boats, but it didn’t seem to matter. As usual, there was no opposition.
It was 8:30 when the advance reached the fork and suddenly spotted some American horsemen lurking in the woods ahead and to the left. It looked like action at last. The officers gave their orders, and the column quickly swung left onto the Wood Yard road. But with this, the Americans faded away.
Ross waited briefly, then reversed course and took the right-hand fork, continuing on toward Upper Marlboro. Here he would again be near Cockburn’s boats in the chase after Barney’s flotilla. The troops were still marching north around 11:00, when the men were startled by several distant explosions. Word spread that Cockburn had caught up with the flotilla.
He had indeed. Moving up the Patuxent, the Admiral’s boats had finally reached Pig Point, where the river narrowed to little more than a stream. And there, rising from behind the point, the British sailors could see the tips of many masts. Putting the marines ashore to attack by land, Cockburn himself led the boats on a final dash. Now the whole American flotilla came in view: Barney’s sloop Scorpion, flying his pendant … 16 gunboats strung in a line … 13 trading schooners taking shelter behind them.
But already the Admiral was too late. Smoke suddenly poured from the Scorpion, and she exploded in a blast that sent spars, rigging and pendant flying. Then the gunboats began blowing up too—the ammunition boat with an earcracking roar and a great mushroom cloud of smoke. Only one was taken, saved when a British sailor scrambled aboard and stamped out a lighted fuse. The rest had been scuttled in line with Washington’s orders.
The British scoured the shore, searching for Barney’s flotillamen. Cockburn landed his aide, Lieutenant James Scott, to help out and continued hovering offshore in his gig. As Scott worked his way up the steep river bank, a shot whizzed by his ear from behind a bush.
“He’s below you, Scott, he’s below you,” the Admiral yelled in excitement. The Lieutenant jumped down and found himself face to face with an American seaman. Scott grabbed the man before he could fire again, but other shots came from the underbrush, and there was a brief, lively skirmish before a handful of the flotillamen were caught. The rest were gone, including the elusive Commodore.
High drama was nothing new to Joshua Barney, a swashbuckling old salt whose past adventures even included a kiss from Marie Antoinette. The Commodore had removed most of his flotillamen the night before the British attack, leaving only skeleton crews to scuttle the boats. By the time those heavy explosions shook the Maryland countryside, he and 400 of his men were well on their way to join Winder’s army at the Wood Yard. They arrived around noon to find the bulk of the American force just returning from its march toward Nottingham.
Watching from the Oden farmhouse, General Winder and James Monroe never saw the British reverse tracks and take the right-hand fork to Upper Marlboro. They only saw the enemy start up the Wood Yard road toward them. That seemed evidence enough: Ross’s army must be heading for the capital—either by Fort Washington or by the two bridges over the Eastern Branch. In either case, there weren’t enough Americans to meet them. Winder ordered his troops to fall back toward the city, and at 9:00 A.M. Monroe dashed off a dispatch to the President:
The enemy are advanced six miles on the road to the Wood Yard, and our troops retiring. Our troops were on the march to meet them, but in too small a body to engage. General Winder proposes to retire till he can collect them in a body. The enemy are in full march for Washington. Have the materials prepared to destroy the bridges.
Then he added a somber afterthought: “You had better remove the records.”
Washington didn’t need to be told. The capital already had a bad case of the jitters. “All look with confidence to the capacity and vigilance of the commanding general,” the National Intelligencer proclaimed that morning, but the people were looking harder at the refugees streaming in from Maryland … at the 200 sturdy citizens who set out under Colonel Decius Wadsworth to dig entrenchments at Bladensburg … at the wagons rattling out of town loaded with furniture, bedding and government records.
At the State Department, clerk Stephen Pleasanton stuffed books and papers into coarse linen bags especially sewn for the emergency. The documents included some of the government’s most cherished possessions: George Washington’s commission … the papers of the Revolutionary Government … the secret Journals of Congress … the Declaration of Independence.
As Pleasanton struggled with the sacks outside of his office, Secretary of War Armstrong passed by on the way to his own room across the hall. Armstrong paused long enough to observe that it all seemed an unnecessary alarm. Once again he explained to anyone who would listen that the leaders of the British force couldn’t seriously be planning to come to Washington.
Pleasanton politely replied that he thought differently—anyhow, he was doing the prudent thing, whatever the danger. He went on with the job … loaded up some carts waiting outside … and secretly stored his treasures in Edgar Patterson’s empty grist mill across the Potomac and two miles above Georgetown.
Across town Mordecai Booth, clerk of the Navy Yard, searched for wagons to carry away the gunpowder stored at the naval arsenal. Pickings were slim, and even slimmer when Secretary Jones told him to get additional teams to take supplies to Barney’s men, wherever they might now be. Everyone seemed to have a good excuse not to go. Booth finally rounded up five wagons, including John Anderson’s fine rig, which had already been hired by the Renner & Heath ropewalk. Daniel Renner’s younger brother flew into a rage, but the old man proved a good sport. “You are doing your duty,” he told Booth. “I cannot say anything against it—you must take the wagon—private considerations must give way to the public good.”
Others weren’t as graceful. Two drivers ran away when Booth tried to impress them; another promised to head for the Navy Yard, only to vanish. The driver for the Riggs & Badon store flatly refused to comply at all—government orders or not—and he was backed by Mr. Riggs himself, using “such language as was degrading to gentlemen.”
Profiteers soon appeared on the scene. John Hare made a nice deal renting his hack to the navy at $6 a day—a skilled man’s wages for a week. William O’Neill, the enterprising innkeeper, saw his $50 nag seized by the army—and later filed a claim for $750.
Even at top prices, no one could find decent transportation to move the mountain of books and records at the Capitol. Clerk of the House Patrick Magruder was away taking the waters in Virginia, and his two underlings, Samuel Burch and J. T. Frost, didn’t realize the danger until noon on the 22nd. By then it was too late. Frost looked all over town in vain, finally went to the country and found a single cart and four oxen. Late that night they creaked off with their first load to the hiding place they had selected nine miles away. With an 18-mile round trip and depending entirely on one oxcart, saving the records of Congress was clearly going to be a challenging task.
As fears increased, the most popular people in town suddenly became French Minister Louis Serurier and his wife. He was charming, suave and agile—the only French diplomat to make the leap from Napoleon to Louis XVIII without missing a beat. She was exotic, beautiful and surrounded by an aura of romance and adventure. As a child of seven, it was said, she had saved her parents during the slave insurrection in Haiti. A fascinating couple, but what made them irresistible right now was their unique status: they were the only people in Washington with diplomatic immunity.
Mrs. Joel Barlow, widow of the capital’s most prominent literary figure, wondered whether she might store some things with the Seruriers. A discreet note from their mutual friend Mrs. William Thornton brought a gracious response, and more:
Mrs. Serurier has the honor to receive Mrs. Thornton’s note. She had given orders to admit into the house Mrs. Barlow’s furniture. In case Mrs. Thornton has anything belonging to her that she would wish to place in her asylum (although she is in hopes that it will be no occasion for it) Mrs. Serurier would be happy to be of some service.…
Colonel John Tayloe, the gentleman horse-breeder, tried the Seruriers’ amiability even further. His splendid brick mansion Octagon House lay just west of the President’s House—surely in the path of any British invaders. Would Monsieur Serurier consent to move in for the duration? The Minister proved most understanding, and Colonel Tayloe’s roof soon displayed a large white sheet on a pole—a make-shift flag of the Bourbons, telling the world that Octagon House was under the French King’s protection.
But these early fears were nothing compared to the panic that erupted when Monroe’s warning arrived on the afternoon of the 22nd. “The enemy are in full march for Washington,” it said; and the effect was electric. People piled into hacks, carriages, anything on wheels to get out of town. Some struggled with bedding and furniture; most simply slammed their doors and fled. “The distress here and in Georgetown is beyond description,” a correspondent wrote the firm of Cox & Montaudevert in New York, “women and children running in every direction.”
And no wonder. The redcoats were bad enough, but rumors soon spread of a stab in the back as well. By now everyone knew about those Tories in southern Maryland who treated the British to food and information—how many of them were mixed with the refugees streaming through the capital? Washington Boyd, Marshal of the District, worked to clear the city of “all persons of suspicious character or irregular conduct.” Mayor James Blake enforced a 10:00 P.M. curfew and urged the citizens “to be vigilant and take up all suspected persons.”
Even more terrifying were the rumors of slave insurrection. No matter how hard the proponents of slavery defended the institution—both the masters’ “benevolence” and the blacks’ “loyalty”—a gnawing fear of revolt always arose in times of crisis. It was never stronger than now. Stories circulated of a dangerous conspiracy uncovered at Frederick 40 miles to the west, with several leaders already arrested. With British encouragement, was the whole countryside about to erupt?
Actually, the blacks were never more steadfast. Despite all Admiral Cochrane’s inducements, only a handful of slaves joined him, even after the landings. And the free blacks—far from siding with the British—worked with everyone else, digging the few entrenchments that were finally thrown up to protect the city.
But nobody knew this Monday evening, August 22. Some fresh danger seemed to ride with every murky lantern bobbing through the streets. Perhaps the only people more worried than the frightened citizens still in town were the government wives who had already found safety … and then thought of the men they left behind. “Take care of yourself, my dearest husband,” Mrs. Richard Rush wrote the Attorney General from Piney Grove. “Remember that the happiness of your wife and helpless little boys are bound up in you, and do not expose yourself unless impervious duty demands it. I am all anxiety to hear from you, really think of nothing else. God bless you. …”
At the President’s House, James Madison could no longer bear the suspense of this harrowing evening. He might not be able to do much, but he simply had to be with his troops at a time like this. He explained his feelings to Dolley and asked whether she had the courage, the firmness, to remain home until he returned. He needn’t have asked. The indomitable First Lady was up to any crisis. She assured him she had no fear, but for him and the success of the army. Urging her to take care of herself, and to look after the cabinet papers, the President then recruited William Jones, Richard Rush, two or three aides and headed for the army.
Around 9:00 P.M. they reached Long Old Fields, a crossroads eight miles east of Washington. Here they found Winder already encamped with the troops. It had been a trying day for the General. Even after he learned the British were heading not for the Wood Yard and Washington, but for Upper Marlboro, he still felt overextended and undermanned. He continued to retire, finally choosing Long Old Fields as a new base that covered about equally well every possible enemy target—Fort Washington, Alexandria, Bladensburg and the capital itself.
But in pulling back, Winder did not seem to realize he was missing a golden chance to fall on the British rear. His intelligence, of course, was wretched, but even his staff surgeon noticed that the enemy had no cavalry; and Benjamin Oden, the patriotic farmer, had carefully calculated the length of Ross’s column, coming up with a remarkably good estimate on the actual numbers involved. Nor was Winder any longer at such a numerical disadvantage. During the day Barney joined up with his 400 flotillamen, and other units were coming. He now had over 3,000 men, 425 cavalry and 20 guns.
None of it made any difference. As night fell on the American camp, the General retired to his quarters, spent several hours over the paperwork he loved so well. At some point after midnight Rush came in to report that the President was on hand, staying at the Williams farm about a mile behind the camp. Winder sent over a captain’s guard and went back to his paperwork. Finally, after listening to a few last words of advice from the amateur strategists that constantly barged in, he lay down to snatch a moment’s rest.
He had little chance. About 2:00 A.M. on the 23rd the alarm gun sounded as the sentries heard a thrashing in the darkness. It turned out to be some cattle the commissary had driven into camp, but no one knew it at the time. Muskets began going off, and the night echoed with shouts and cursing as the sleepy troops stumbled into position to meet the expected attack.
Colonel Allen McLane was appalled at the sight. Apparently giving up his search for axes, he had spent the day conducting a distant and very safe reconnaissance; now he was returning at the height of the confusion. The whole camp was “as open as a race ground”; fires blazed up, silhouetting every detail; men were shouting the countersign without a thought of security. Going to Winder’s quarters, he said to himself, “If General Ross does not rout us this night, it will not be our fault.”
Eight miles away at Upper Marlboro, General Ross was passing a quiet and thoroughly comfortable night. He was staying at the home of Dr. William Beanes, the only local resident still in town when the British entered about two o’clock that afternoon. At 65, Beanes was far more than the community’s leading physician. He was its most prominent citizen: major landholder, proprietor of the local grist mill, owner of the best house in town. When he offered it to Ross as a headquarters, the General was glad to accept. It was not only a pleasant place, but the host was a friendly man. Ross even got the impression that the doctor’s Federalist leanings amounted to actual sympathy for the British cause.
But the General gave the matter little thought, for he was once again beset with doubts about the whole operation. Barney’s flotilla—the primary target—was now destroyed; should the British carry on with the attack on Washington, so close to Admiral Cockburn’s heart? They were now nearly 30 miles from the fleet, still without any decent artillery or cavalry (although 40 of the artillerymen were now mounted on farm horses), and without any real idea of what the enemy was doing.
The lack of intelligence was particularly irritating. Despite Admiral Cochrane’s long-standing orders to develop a network of agents, this was another thing neglected by Cockburn in his hit-and-run raids and chasing after tobacco. Occasional friendly inhabitants were all very well—they gave one a good feel for the Americans’ apathy and dissension—but they didn’t take the place of hard intelligence on enemy troop movements. For this Ross depended, mainly on a single man named Calder, a miserable wretch with a dreadful skin disease, who had come into camp apparently hoping to supply information in exchange for medical treatment.
Most of the staff disagreed with Ross. His Deputy Quartermaster General, Lieutenant George de Lacy Evans, an enterprising young officer who at 23 had already served in India, Persia and the Peninsula, thought it was absurd to turn back. They were now only 16 miles from Washington, and the enemy had yet to show any mettle. If only Cockburn were here to steel the General’s resolve.…
And why couldn’t he be? It was only four miles to Mount Calvert, where the Admiral was resting on the tender Resolution after the day’s excitement. Quietly, two members of Ross’s staff slipped down the road and visited Cockburn. They explained the problem, stressed their own desire to push ahead, and invited the Admiral to come back with them to throw his weight on the scales. They had even brought along an extra horse.
They knew their man. Early in the morning of August 23 Cockburn mounted the saddle and rode back to Ross’s quarters with his aide Lieutenant Scott and the two self-appointed emissaries.
The Admiral proved as persuasive as ever. Even if they had accomplished their primary mission—even if the orders restricted their movements—no one in London, or with the fleet, could have conceived the opportunity that now lay open. Washington was there for the taking.
Ross swung back into line, and to steel his resolve, Cockburn quickly sent orders to Captain Harrison, whose Marine Artillery were with the rear guard left at Pig Point: bring his men and guns to Upper Marlboro and join the army. Other orders went to Captain Wainwright to hurry over with the seamen from the armed boats and barges. Finally, the Admiral sent Lieutenant Scott back to Admiral Cochrane, waiting at Benedict, to report what had been accomplished and, even more important, what was about to be done.
At 2:00 P.M. everything was in hand. The bugles blew … the troops fell in … and the British force moved out from Upper Marlboro, taking the road west toward Long Old Fields, Washington, and their next adventure.
At 2:00 P.M. James Madison headed back to Washington from his visit to the American camp at Long Old Fields, reasonably sure that the British would not be leaving Upper Marlboro any time soon.
He was now confident that the capital was safe—that the enemy would probably return direct to their ships. Best of all, there was finally an American counterblow in the making. Things had come a long way since those dark hours last night when the panicky troops were firing at their own livestock.
Madison’s day had begun at 6:00 A.M., when General Winder arrived at the Williams estate to pay his respects. After the usual amenities Secretary Armstrong asked for a military briefing, and the General stressed the lack of enemy cavalry and artillery. He concluded that the British would remain in Upper Marlboro until their squadron on the Potomac reached Fort Washington. Falling back on a pet theory, he felt Ross’s troops would then go down and join in a combined assault on that stronghold. Once taken, the two forces would together move on the capital.
Armstrong had little comment, except to say once again that whatever the British did, there would be no serious attack on Washington. At most, there might be what he called a “Cossack hurrah”—a quick hit-and-run strike. The best way to meet this, he added, was to hole up in the Capitol Building; then, the minute the enemy momentum seemed spent, the Americans should emerge in an all-out charge. “On the success of this plan,” Armstrong declared somewhat grandly, “I would pledge both life and reputation.”
Perhaps because in Madison’s eyes he now had very little reputation to lose, nothing more was said. The meeting broke up indecisively, and at 8:00 A.M. the President went to the camp to review the troops. They were drawn up in three or four long straggling lines, but were remarkably cheerful, considering their harrowing night of false alarms.
Right after the review a scout galloped up with a report that gave an entirely new twist to the situation: the British were leaving Upper Marlboro, bound for Annapolis. This fitted another favorite theory of Winder’s—the Maryland capital was always high on his list of possible targets—and for the time being he cast aside his picture of a link-up on the Potomac. He sent Captain Luffborough and 20 troopers to report on the latest development.
Annapolis was still on everybody’s mind when Thomas L. McKenney, the Georgetown drygoods dealer serving as aide and scout, rode into camp a little later. McKenney had been watching the British all morning. He knew they were still in Marlboro, but noted some activity and predicted they would attack Winder’s camp within 24 hours.
“They can have no such intention,” Secretary Armstrong broke in. “They are foraging, I suppose; and if an attack is meditated by them upon any place, it is Annapolis.”
Attention turned to two deserters brought in by McKenney—perhaps they would have the answer. Madison himself led the interrogation, but the results were disappointing. They didn’t know their destination, their strength or even who commanded them. Finally, McKenney asked them to look at the American force and see whether theirs was equal to it.
“We think it is,” they answered with a smile.
At noon Captain Luffborough sent a message confirming that the British were still at Upper Marlboro. Winder quickly swung back to his old theory: Ross’s troops would join the Potomac squadron in a day or two. Meanwhile he saw a golden opportunity. He now had 3,000 men at Long Old Fields; Stansbury had 1,400 at Bladensburg; Sterett would soon arrive there with another 800; Colonel Beall had still another 800 near Annapolis. Altogether they added up to some 6,000 men within 20 miles of each other. Winder decided to concentrate them all and attack tomorrow before the British left Upper Marlboro. He even pictured a simultaneous assault, launched from different directions, from the heights around the town.
He quickly outlined his ideas to Madison and the cabinet. The President apparently differed only in the matter of British intentions. He doubted whether they had the power for any extended operations at all. With Barney’s flotilla destroyed, they would probably return straight to their ships.
In any event Madison was satisfied that the situation was now under control. He went back to the Williams place, where he penciled a note to Dolley. He reassured her that “the last & probably truest information” indicated that the British were not very strong, “and of course that they are not in a condition to strike at Washington.” Unless some new development kept him away, he concluded, “I hope I shall be with you in the course tho’ perhaps later in the evening.”
Nothing had happened by 2:00 P.M.; so now—in company with Jones, Armstrong and several aides—he mounted his saddle and headed home.
Meanwhile Winder put his victory plan into effect—orders to Stansbury at Bladensburg to advance toward Upper Marlboro, stopping at a crossroads about four miles away … orders to Sterett, not yet at Bladensburg, to follow along. No one knew where Beall was at the moment, but as soon as located, he was to close in from the north, joining the ring that would encircle the enemy. To keep a “fix” on the British—to watch them closely and contain them as much as possible—Major Peter was again sent forward with the same advance force he had led yesterday near Nottingham.
Shortly after 12:00 all was in motion, and Winder headed up toward Bladensburg with a few cavalrymen, hoping to meet Stansbury coming down. Reaching the Bladensburg—Upper Marlboro road, he halted and pushed a patrol toward Marlboro. Soon two prisoners were brought in; they confirmed that the British wouldn’t be marching that day. So it was just as he thought: if they hadn’t moved by now, they wouldn’t move at all, and by tomorrow they would be too late—he’d hit them from all sides.
Some time after 2:00 these pleasant thoughts were jarred by the sound of gunfire. Winder decided that Peter’s detachment must have made contact with the enemy at Upper Marlboro.
He was right. Approaching the town, Peter had sent some scouts ahead, and they soon came under fire. But it was not just some enemy pickets guarding the camp; it was the whole British Army. Contrary to all expectations, Ross was on the march. Worse than that, he was heading along the road directly toward Peter’s detachment … toward the American camp at Long Old Fields … and ultimately toward Washington itself.
Peter cautiously pulled back from his position on a high hill overlooking the road. Almost immediately a handful of British officers, bright with red coats and gold lace, appeared on the crest he had just left. Captain Stull’s riflemen fired a volley, missed, and cursed the day they had been issued muskets instead of their rifles. But the “redcoat gentlemen” (as Peter liked to call them) did seem shaken and quickly retired behind the brow of the hill.
The British advance now edged over the summit. Stull’s men fired two or three more ineffectual volleys and slowly fell back. Enemy troops were soon pouring down the hill after them, and there was a frantic moment when Sergeant Nicolls collapsed of sunstroke. Somehow he was pulled to safety, and Peter gained extra time by turning a couple of his 6-pounders on the British. They fired two or three rounds—misses but close. Incredibly, this was the first American artillery to fire on the enemy in five days.
But Peter was no match for “Wellington’s Invincibles,” now beginning to work their way skillfully around him. At one point he tried persuading Colonel Laval to use his cavalry detachment to cover the American flanks. After all, they were regulars, they were supposed to do that sort of thing. Sorry, said Laval, his horses were “not trained” and he could do nothing to help.
On a nearby ridge James Monroe sat on his roan horse watching the British advance. The Secretary of State had been in the saddle for nearly a week, but he still relished this life of action, infinitely preferring it to the confused strategy sessions he perhaps should be attending. He was still at it when Thomas McKenney, the scouting drygoods dealer, rode up and joined him. As they watched together, the British advance halted at an estate called Melwood. To McKenney, they were clearly going into bivouac, slinging their kettles, and so forth.
Monroe now took the road toward Bladensburg, while McKenney himself rushed back to Long Old Fields and breathlessly reported that the enemy were “within a mile.” Actually, the distance was three miles, and he certainly didn’t make it clear that the British had gone into camp. To Brigadier General Walter Smith, the militia officer left in charge by Winder, the enemy were upon him and his own commanding general was nowhere around.
Making the best of it, Smith quickly formed a line of battle across the road and waited for the British attack. Then, remarking that he didn’t like taking the responsibility for a fight if Winder could be located, he rushed McKenney off again on a frantic search. The commanding general was found about eight miles away, trotting north on the Marlboro-Bladensburg road, looking forward to his meeting with General Stansbury, the union of his two main forces, and the coming all-out assault on the enemy.
McKenney’s message changed everything. In a heart-stopping instant all plans for the great American counterblow vanished. Winder dashed off new orders to General Stansbury: turn around … return to Bladensburg … if attacked, resist as long as possible, then retreat toward Washington. He himself spurred his horse and raced back to Long Old Fields. Arriving around 5:00, he glanced with approval at General Smith’s battle line, grimly expecting the British at any minute.
“It is all well arranged,” he complimented Smith, “but the manifest object of the enemy is to attack us in the night. We have not the material for a night fight.”
This was a new thought. There was no evidence that the British contemplated a night fight. The countryside was totally strange to them; they had never moved at night so far; and McKenney was right there to say they were going into camp when he last saw them. Never mind. A good commander must think of everything, and Winder shuddered at the idea of a British assault in the dark. The Americans’ biggest advantage lay in their artillery, and this would be lost in a night fight. Then it would be just his raw militia against the trained British regulars—hopeless odds. He must break up this battle line and move his army at once.
But where? If he marched to Bladensburg and joined Stansbury, that would combine his two main forces, giving him a concentration of 4,400 men right away … 6,000 when Sterett and Beall arrived.
But the military textbook said for every plus there’s a minus, and the minuses here began to haunt him. Concentrating at Bladensburg would leave wide open the road to Fort Washington and the Potomac squadron (that old nightmare) … it would be useless if the British went to Annapolis (that other old nightmare) … and added to all this, a new nightmare suddenly occurred to him. Going to Bladensburg would also leave open the road to Long Old Fields and direct to Washington—the one he was now on. True, there was the Eastern Branch to cross, half a mile wide at this point. But suppose no one carried out his orders to destroy the two bridges if the British approached? The enemy could walk unopposed into the heart of the city while he sat at Bladensburg!
There was only one thing to do: return to Washington at once. It never seemed to occur to Winder that all necessary precautions could be taken by one trusted lieutenant … that it wasn’t necessary to use his whole army to make sure the bridges were burned.
At sundown the troops began to pull back, covered at first by Captain Benjamin Burch and his Washington Artillery Company. But in half an hour a courier rode up, told Burch to join the rest, and as night fell the whole army was reeling back in a single, dispirited mass. To John Law, one of Burch’s artillerymen, the retreat turned into ”a run of eight miles.” Shortly after 8 o’clock they reached the Eastern Branch, swarmed across the two bridges, tumbled into the city, and sank exhausted in a field near the Navy Yard.
The sight of these weary heaps of men, lying motionless in the open field, expelled any lingering thoughts of optimism in the minds of those left in the capital. “I cannot find language to express the situation of the women and children, who are running the streets in a state bordering on distraction,” one of Winder’s footsore militiamen wrote a friend in Philadelphia late that night. “Some are trying to remove their bedding, clothes and furniture, while others are determined to stay by their homes until they are burnt around them.”
Official Washington tried its best to put on a brave front, but here, too, the air was heavy with foreboding. “In the present state of alarm and bustle of preparation for the worst that may happen, I imagine it will be more convenient to dispense with the enjoyment of your hospitality today,” Eleanor Jones, wife of the Secretary of the Navy, tactfully wrote Dolley Madison, begging off from an engagement that evening at the President’s House.
The First Lady was only too glad to excuse her. Much had happened since that hopeful note from her husband early in the afternoon, assuring her that all was well. Toward evening a second note arrived that was anything but cheering. By then the home-bound President” had been advised of the new British advance; now he told her to be ready “at a moment’s warning” to get her carriage and leave the city … the enemy seemed stronger than first reported … they might reach Washington and destroy it.
She jammed fistfuls of cabinet papers into as many trunks as her carriage would hold; then marked time—determined not to go until she was sure Madison was safe. It was a nerve-racking wait, not helped when Jean Pierre Sioussa, her faithful and indispensable major-domo, offered to spike the cannon at the gates and lay a train of powder which would explode as the British entered the house. Dolley’s Quaker training, though often dormant, rebelled at this. She told him that even in war some things weren’t done. Then she firmly sat back and continued waiting for some sign of the President … or the British.
At Melwood, General Ross and Admiral Cockburn lay on their cloaks, sound asleep in the small shed that served as their headquarters. Outside, the last of the seamen and marines, ordered from the boats to join the army, bedded down for the night. Nearby, Lieutenant Gleig put in some anxious hours on picket duty, half-convinced that the Americans would attack him. At Upper Marlboro, Captain Robyns of the Royal Marines relaxed after a long day spent loading prize tobacco for transport down the river. At Benedict, Admiral Cochrane’s fleet lay silently at anchor in the black, quiet waters of the Patuxent.
Despite all the American jitters, there was not a hostile move on the night of August 23. In fact, practically the only Englishman in motion was on quite a different mission. Dispatched to Admiral Cochrane to report the destruction of Barney’s flotilla and the planned descent on Washington, Admiral Cockburn’s aide Lieutenant Scott was now hurrying from Benedict to the British camp with orders emphatically disapproving any attack on the American capital.
The project was much too rash, Fleet Captain Codrington had argued, and finally new orders were drafted. Technically addressed to Cockburn but clearly meant for Ross as well; they said that the Rear Admiral had already accomplished more than England could have expected with such a small force; that he was on no account to proceed any farther; that the army was instead to return immediately to Benedict and re-embark; that it would be risking the success of future operations to make any attempt on Washington with such inadequate means.
Handing the letter containing all this to Scott, Cochrane told him to memorize it. Then, if he was in danger of capture on the way back, he was to eat it—do anything, in fact, to keep it from falling into the hands of the enemy. If he was lucky enough to reach the camp after all, he was to give the message verbally to Cockburn.
It was late that night before Scott got back to Upper Marlboro; then still more hours while he and Captain Robyns rode through the dark, searching for Melwood. At last, however, the bivouac fires came in sight, and Scott galloped ahead, still clutching the orders that would—if obeyed—change the fate of the expedition and save the American capital.