So the United States had quite a list of grievances against its former sovereign: impressment of American sailors, provocation of Indian unrest on its frontiers, and the outright seizure of its commercial ships. Taken individually, each might have been enough to demand a course of war. Taken collectively, and fanned by Henry Clay and his Canada-hungry war hawks, to some Americans they most certainly were—no matter how militarily unprepared the United States might be.
And the United States was decidedly that. In January 1812 after considerable debate, Congress authorized increasing the regular army to 35,603 officers and enlisted men serving five-year terms, but that was far easier decreed than done. The effective strength of the United States Army was then only about 4,000 officers and men. A month later when Congress tried to bridge this gap between existing and planned size by empowering the president to call for 30,000 one-year volunteers, the question became whether the state militias that would likely provide them would be inclined to serve beyond the borders of their respective home states. The country was still that provincial.
In April, Clay’s Congress authorized President Madison to offer an additional 15,000 eighteen-month enlistments in the regular army and to require state governors to make ready as many as 80,000 volunteer militia to serve at a moment’s notice. None of this happened quickly, of course, and by June 6, 1812, there were still only 6,744 officers and men serving in the regular army and another 5,000 or so in the newly authorized volunteer regiments.
The navy wasn’t in much better shape. The U.S. fleet consisted of five frigates, three sloops, seven brigs, and an assorted collection of sixty-two coastal gunboats. These were crewed by some four thousand seamen, many of whom were still in their teens. When the Madison administration requested a dozen seventy-four-gun ships of the line and twenty new frigates, Congress merely authorized the repair of five laid-up frigates. The same Congress that urged expansion of the army voted down the creation of an oceangoing navy because of opposition from the war hawks—evidence to many that it was indeed cries of “Canada!” that quickened their pulses and not injustices on the high seas. Only the eighteen-hundred-man Marine Corps could boast of its relatively recent combat experience on the shores of Tripoli.1
It was hardly a state of affairs to inspire military confidence, no matter how upset the United States might be with tensions on the high seas and along its Canadian border. But the truth was that Great Britain was even more unprepared to fight a sustained war in North America because it had grown increasingly preoccupied with far more pressing concerns on the European continent. In the spring of 1812, Napoleon led his legions eastward into Russia and unleashed a series of events that in time would come to have as great an impact on the course of the ensuing American war as any military engagement in North America. If Russia fell to Napoleon’s legions, Great Britain could well foresee the demise of its global empire and perhaps the world order. Even Thomas Jefferson had branded Napoleon “the first and chiefest apostle of the desolation of men and morals” and would come to call him “the Attila of the age.”2
In that light, the issues causing friction between Great Britain and the United States appeared relatively small. There were many in England and America alike who agreed with a writer to the London Times that “the Alps and the Apennines of America are the British Navy; if ever that should be removed, a short time will suffice to establish the head-quarters of a [French] Duke-Marshall at Washington…”3 Indeed, those with any exposure at all to the situation in Louisiana knew well Napoleon’s optimism toward regaining it. Thus, it seemed that France would be the clear beneficiary of any U.S. military action against Great Britain. If not with the direct intervention that Lafayette had once carried to the aid of the Thirteen Colonies, by declaring war on Great Britain the United States would nonetheless be coming indirectly to the aid of France.
Inconceivable as that seemed to some, there were those in Great Britain who knew that it had to offer some sort of olive branch to its disgruntled former colonies if for no other reason than to cover its flanks and prevent the dilution of its efforts against Napoleon. Accordingly, Parliament began to debate the repeal of the Orders in Council that would in effect normalize trade relations with the United States. But unfortunately, the War of 1812 was plagued by a dismal slowness in international communication both at its beginning and at its end. So while Parliament debated conciliatory concessions, the United States Congress debated a declaration of war.
The debate was unexcited and in many ways reluctant, but it mirrored the sentiments of the country as a whole. Sure, there were those young firebrands champing at the bit to ride for Canada and others ardently pushing the special interests they thought a war might benefit, but many in Congress, as in the country at large, failed to be galvanized by one clarion summons to war. The Henry papers fiasco had failed miserably to spark that summons and unite the country in moral outrage, and even on the most egregious of British trespasses there was no universal indignation for war.
Perhaps one of the most salient observations of this national reluctance came from the pen of Henry Adams three-quarters of a century later as he chronicled the administrations of Jefferson and Madison. “Many nations have gone to war in pure gayety of heart,” Adams wrote, “but perhaps the United States were first to force themselves into a war they dreaded, in the hope that the war itself might create the spirit they lacked.”4
Perhaps “spirit they lacked” was too harsh a judgment, but there was certainly a decided lack of enthusiasm that was widespread. In Massachusetts the Federalist-controlled legislature voted overwhelming against an “offensive war,” counting many Republicans in their majority. Across the Hudson in New York, there was a growing antiwar sentiment despite, or perhaps because of, its proximity to Canada. In Virginia, crusty John Randolph and others in the western part of the state were opposed to war, as were certain congressmen in North Carolina.
Part of the national ambivalence may have been because even among those in favor of war, there was a nagging question about whom to fight. The Kentucky legislature railed against both Great Britain and France. Four other legislatures implied in resolutions that France was an enemy equal to Great Britain. Participants at a public meeting at Charleston, South Carolina, attended by Republicans and Federalists alike—including two-time Federalist standard bearer Charles Pinckney—complained bitterly that both Great Britain and France had provoked war on numerous occasions. In the midst of the war debate, there were calls for a “triangular war” against both Great Britain and France.5
Now here was more than a little Yankee brass! Great Britain and France were locked in an epic struggle for the control of a continent and dominion over half a world, and some in the United States boldly debated taking on both of them! There was actually ample provocation for this, despite the apparent political and military suicide. Later that summer, Madison sent a list of captured American ships to Congress and reported that since November 1807 the British had seized 389 vessels, but that the French had seized 558. Mollifying to some was the fact that the French did not impress sailors as did the British.6
Throughout the spring of 1812, Congress vacillated on the war issue, at several points even coming close to adjourning until fall to delay confronting it. President Madison vacillated as well, time and again delaying sending a war message to Congress. Some contend he finally did so only to appease the war hawks in the western states whose electoral votes he would need in the fall, and in the hope that the declaration itself might loosen the jaw of the British lion. But in the end, after more than a decade of exasperation, to many it became a matter of national honor. “The period has now arrived,” the Virginia House of Delegates resolved, “when peace, as we now have it, is disgraceful, and war is honorable.”7
Thus, on June 1, 1812, Madison’s war message was finally submitted and read before both houses of Congress. Given the custom of the day, it was read by a clerk who droned on without inflection or emotion for about half an hour. Not only was there no television, but both houses met in secret executive session. There were not even reporters in the galleries to play to. Even if there had been, an appearance before Congress would have placed Madison uncomfortably and uncharacteristically at the head of the charge.
Predictably, Madison’s war message was devoted almost exclusively to maritime grievances: impressments, the Orders in Council, and ship seizures. Great Britain, the president charged, was determined to destroy American shipping and to secure for itself “the monopoly which she covets for her own commerce and navigation.” He devoted only a paragraph to “the warfare just renewed by the savages on one of our extensive frontiers,” but concluded that it was “difficult to account for this activity” without connecting it to the presence of British traders and garrisons with whom the Indians were “in constant intercourse.” Great Britain, Madison asserted, was already in “a state of war against the United States.” The decision before Congress was whether the country would “continue passive under these progressive usurpations,” or respond with force and “commit a just cause into the hands of the Almighty Disposer of events….”8
In Henry Clay’s House of Representatives, the answer came quickly, if less than decisively. Federalist opponents of the declaration first tried unsuccessfully three times to remove the veil of executive session and bring the debate into the public eye. Many congressmen had returned from spring visits home having found no groundswell of support for the measure. Still, many ultimately voted for it reluctantly and hoped, in the words of historian Bradford Perkins, that “the Senate would save the nation from the consequences of their own votes in the House.” The result was that on June 4, 1812, the House of Representatives passed Madison’s declaration of war 79 to 49. “I think,” asserted New Hampshire’s Josiah Bartlett, “the business was too hasty.”
It was not as much of a sectional vote as New England opposition to Mr. Madison’s war might have suggested. Clay’s cohorts west of the Appalachians voted solidly for war, as did the delegations of Georgia and South Carolina, but the rest of the country was split. The Virginia and Pennsylvania delegations both voted a majority for war, but New York’s was overwhelmingly opposed. Only Connecticut, Delaware, and Rhode Island cast unanimous antiwar votes, and in fact the measure may not have passed the House but for the prowar votes of six Massachusetts congressmen and the majorities of the Vermont and New Hampshire delegations.9
Over in the Senate, things moved more slowly. Perhaps the Senate would save the country from itself after all. After a week of debate, Alexander Gregg of Pennsylvania moved to send the war bill back to a select committee to amend it by substituting the declaration of full war with the issuance of letters of marque and reprisal. This would have authorized privateers to attack and seize British shipping, but, it was hoped, would limit the war to individual naval engagements. The Senate motion carried by a vote of 17 to 13, and more than one reluctant House member who had voted for full war breathed a sigh of relief.10 Meanwhile, Vermont’s Stephen Bradley was hastening south in a coach to add another vote against war.
But the sighs of relief were short-lived. Three days later, when the select committee reported out the marque and reprisal measure, the opponents of such a limited naval war defeated the proposal because one Republican changed his vote and two members who had not voted on the original Gregg motion now voted against it. The 16–16 tie meant that Madison’s original war declaration was back on the table.
Then came tries at additional amendments, including one to issue letters of marque and reprisal against both French and British ships. It was defeated 15 to 17. With the defeat of each attempt at some measure of moderation, the inevitability of war appeared more certain. Reluctant though they might be, some senators began to consider changing their votes. Still, Stephen Bradley’s coach hurried toward Washington.
James A. Bayard of Delaware, the same heartbeat who had once voted for Jefferson over Burr in the 1800 election, asked that consideration of the proposal be tabled until November. People weren’t prepared for war, he said, and he wanted time for ships at sea to sail home safely. Bayard’s amendment received only eleven votes and his subsequent try to delay a final vote until July garnered only nine votes. Finally, on June 17, 1812, the United States Senate voted 19 to 13 for the declaration of war.11 It was by far and away the closest war vote in American history. James Madison was said to be “white as a sheet.”12 Perhaps he, too, had thought that the Senate would save him from the consequences of his decision.
It appears that “two or three senators shifted only when they saw that their negative votes would not prevent a declaration of war.” Trying to put its most righteous spin on the vote, the Senate Foreign Relations Committee declared that “it must be evident to the impartial world that the contest which is now forced upon the United States is a contest for their sovereignty and independence.” Two days after the vote, Stephen Bradley finally arrived from Vermont. History would ponder whether his earlier arrival might have held fast the reluctant few and changed the outcome.13
So the vote was done, the die cast, and James Madison signed the declaration of war on June 18, 1812, two days after the British Parliament announced plans to repeal the Orders in Council and five days before it in fact did so. With its best eye on Napoleon’s intentions, Great Britain assumed that such a concession would be enough to appease its American cousins. If news of this concession had reached the Senate before its final vote, might war have been averted? Probably not.
The Orders in Council and related trade issues were only one leg of the triangle of war sentiment. The British had shown no inclination to address or suspend their impressment practices, and the cries of the war hawks against the Indians and for Canada remained unabated. A British proposal for an armistice based on the repeal of the Orders in Council alone was flatly refused. Having managed to “let slip the dogs of war,” Henry Clay was not about to leash them quickly. A Kentucky newspaper noted the armistice talk and described the reports that Canada might be left in British hands as “so ridiculous that we are almost ashamed to mention them.”14
Clay and his war hawks looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. They had certainly not ridden a tidal wave of public opinion to this decision, but they had dodged the rocks in a river of rapids that had led irrevocably over the brink. The dogs of war were loose. The Federal Republican summed up the process for many when it editorialized that the country had been led kicking and screaming “by the blind and senseless animosity of a few ‘new-hatched unfledged comrades,’ who are but boys in public affairs, and who, in fact, have not been seen before by the American people on the public stage.”15
Perhaps no one was more surprised at the declaration than the British ambassador, Augustus J. Foster. Summoned to the State Department by Secretary of State James Monroe on the afternoon after the vote, Foster reported to his government: “I have to remark on this extraordinary measure that it seems to have been unexpected by nearly the whole Nation; and to have been carried in opposition to the declared sentiments of many of those who voted for it, in the House of Representatives, as well as in the Senate, in which latter body there was known to have been at one time, a decided Majority against it.”16
Monroe invited Foster to stay for tea, and Foster understood Monroe to hint that compromise might still be possible. Indeed, the Madison administration felt that any war would be limited in scope and/or brief in duration, and that perchance the mere declaration of war might be enough to force Great Britain to yield on the issue of impressment. Meanwhile, in the confusion of the next few months, at the very least Canada would likely drop like a rich plum into the American orbit. Reluctant warriors though they be, the Madison administration seemed confident of the outcome. Even before his meeting with Foster, Monroe wrote a friend: “My candid opinion is that we shall succeed in obtaining what it is important to obtain, and that we shall experience little annoyance or embarrassment in the effort.”17
Events would soon prove, however, that it was difficult to engage in limited war. “By war,” Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts wrote President Madison, “we should be purified, as by fire.”18 And the fire was to come.
