Naval Actions of the War of 1812

The history of the naval combats of our second war with Great Britain, the career of the frigate Constitution, and the deeds of our Yankee commodores will never be forgotten as long as we have a navy or continue to be a nation. England, it must be remembered, had held the seas for centuries. In no combat between single ships (where the forces engaged were anything like equal) had she lost a vessel. The French fleets, under orders of their own government, ran away from hers, and the Spanish captains had allowed their ships’ timbers to rot for years in blockaded harbors. Nevertheless, this was the age of honor, of gallantry, of the stiff duelling code, when men bowed, passed compliments, and fought one another to the death with a parade of courtesy that has left trace today in the conduct of the intercourse between all naval powers. In the duels of the ships in the past that have stirred the naval world, America has records that are monuments to her seamen, and that must arouse the pride of every officer who sails in her great steel cruisers today.

Up to the affair of the Constitution and the Guerrière, in 1812, the British had not fairly tested in battle the seamanship or naval metal of the Americans. With the exceptions of the actions between the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis, the Ranger and Drake, and the Yarmouth and Randolph, the war of ’76 was a repelled invasion.

The twenty-four hours of the 19th of August, 1812, began with light breezes that freshened as the morning wore on. The Constitution was slipping southward through the long rolling seas.

A month before this date, under the command of Commodore Hull, she had made her wonderful escape from Broke’s squadron after a chase of over sixty hours.

Her cruise since she had left Boston, two weeks before, had been uneventful. Vainly had she sought from Cape Sable to the region of Halifax, from Nova Scotia to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, for any sign of a foe worthy her metal. It was getting on towards two o’clock; her men had finished their midday meal, the afternoon drills had not begun, and an observation showed the ship to be in latitude 41° 40´ and longitude 55° 48´. Suddenly “Sail ho!” from the mast-head stirred the groups on the forecastle, and caused the officer pacing the weather side of the quarter-deck to stop suddenly and raise his head.

“Where away?” he shouted to the voice far up above the booming sails.

Almost before he could get the answer the stranger’s top-sails were visible from the lower rigging, into which the midshipmen and idlers had scrambled, and a few moments later they could be seen from the upper deck. The vessel was too far off to show her character, but bore E.S.E., a faint dot against the horizon.

Hull came immediately from his cabin. He was a large, fat man, whose excitable temperament was held in strong control. His eye gleamed when he saw the distant speck of white. Immediately the Constitution’s course was altered, and with her light sails set she was running free, with kites all drawing, and the chase looming clearer and clearer each anxious minute of the time. At three o’clock it was plainly seen that she was a large ship, on the starboard tack, close-hauled on the wind, and under easy sail. In half an hour her ports could be descried through the glass, and loud murmurs of satisfaction ran through the ship’s company. The officers smiled congratulations at one another, and Hull’s broad face shone with his suppressed emotion. In the official account Hull speaks of the conduct of his crew before the fight in the following words: “It gives me great pleasure to say that from the smallest boy in the ship to the oldest seaman not a look of fear was seen. They went into action giving three cheers, and requesting to be laid close to the enemy.” The Constitution gained on the stranger, who held her course, as if entirely oblivious of her pursuer’s presence.

When within three miles, and to leeward, Hull shortened sail and cleared the decks; the drum beat to quarters, and the men sprang to their stations. No crew was ever better prepared to do battle for any cause or country. Although few of the men had been in action before, they had been drilled until they had the handling of the clumsy iron guns down to the point of excellence. They had been taught to fire on the falling of a sea, and to hull their opponent, if possible, at every shot. They loved and trusted their commander, were proud of their ship, and burned to avenge the wrongs to which many had been subjected, for the merchant service had furnished almost half their number.

As soon as Hull took in his sail the stranger backed her main-topsail yard, and slowly came up into the wind. Then it could be seen that her men were all at quarters also. Hull raised his flag. Immediately in response up went to every mast-head of the waiting ship the red cross of old England. It was growing late in the afternoon, the breeze had freshened, and the white-caps had begun to jump on every side. The crew of the Constitution broke into three ringing cheers as their grand old craft bore down upon the enemy. When almost within range the English let go her broadside, filled away, wore ship, and fired her other broadside on the other tack. The shot fell short, and the Constitution reserved her fire. For three-quarters of an hour the two yawed about and manoeuvred, trying to rake and to avoid being raked in turn. Occasionally the Constitution fired a gun; her men were in a fever of impatience.

At six in the evening the enemy, seeing all attempts to outsail her antagonist were in vain, showed a brave indication of wishing to close and fight. Nearer the two approached, the American in silence.

“Shall I fire?” inquired Lieutenant Morris, Hull’s second in command.

“Not yet,” replied Hull, quietly.

The bows of the Constitution began to double the quarter of the enemy. The latter’s shot began to start the sharp white splinters flying about the Constitution’s decks.

“Shall I fire?” again asked Lieutenant Morris.

“Not yet, sir,” was Hull’s answer, spoken almost beneath his breath. Suddenly he bent forward. “Now, boys,” he shouted, loudly, so that his voice rang above the enemy’s shots and the roaring of the seas under the quarter, “pour it into them!” It was at this point, so the story goes, that Hull, crouching in his excitement, split his tight knee-breeches from waistband to buckle.

The Constitution’s guns were double-shotted with round and grape. The broadside was as one single explosion, and the destruction was terrific. The enemy’s decks were flooded, and the blood ran out of the scuppers—her cockpit filled with the wounded. For a few minutes, shrouded in smoke, they fought at the distance of a half pistol-shot, but in that short space of time the Englishman was literally torn to pieces in hull, spars, sails, and rigging.

As her mizzen-mast gave way the Englishman brought up into the wind, and the Constitution forged slowly ahead, fired again, luffed short around the other’s bows, and, owing to the heavy sea, fell foul of her antagonist, with her bowsprit across her larboard quarter. While in this position Hull’s cabin was set on fire by the enemy’s forward battery, and part of the crew were called away from the guns to extinguish the threatening blaze.

Now both sides tried to board. It was the old style of fighting for the British tars, and they bravely swarmed on deck at the call, “Boarders away!” and the shrill piping along the ’tween-decks. The Americans were preparing for the same attempt, and three of their officers who mounted the taffrail were shot by the muskets of the English. Brave Lieutenant Bush, of the marines, fell dead with a bullet in his brain.

The swaying and grinding of the huge ships against each other made boarding impossible, and it was at this anxious moment that the sails of the Constitution filled; she fell off and shot ahead. Hardly was she clear when the foremast of the enemy fell, carrying with it the wounded main-mast, and leaving the proud vessel of a few hours before a helpless wreck, “rolling like a log in the trough of the sea, entirely at the mercy of the billows.”

It was now nearly seven o’clock. The sky had clouded over, the wind was freshening, and the sea was growing heavy. Hull drew off for repairs, rove new rigging, secured his masts, and, wearing ship, again approached, ready to pour in a final broadside. It was not needed. Before the Constitution could fire, the flag which had been flying at the stump of the enemy’s mizzen-mast was struck. The fight was over.

A boat was lowered from the Constitution, and Lieutenant Read, the third officer, rowing to the prize, inquired, with “Captain Hull’s compliments,” if she had struck her flag. He was answered by Captain Dacres—who must have possessed a sense of humor—that, for very obvious reasons, she certainly had done so.

To quote a few words from Hull’s account of the affair—he says: “After informing that so fine a ship as the Guerrière, commanded by an able and experienced officer, had been totally dismasted and otherwise cut to pieces, so as to make her not worth towing into port, in the short space of thirty minutes (actual fighting time), you can have no doubt of the gallantry and good conduct of the officers and ship’s company I have the honor to command.”

In the Constitution seven were killed and seven wounded. In the Guerrière, fifteen killed, sixty-two wounded—including several officers and the captain, who was wounded slightly; twenty-four were missing.

The next day, owing to the reasons shown in Hull’s report, the Guerrière was set on fire. At 3.15 in the afternoon she blew up; and this was the end of the ship whose commander had sent a personal message to Captain Hull some weeks before, requesting the “honor of a tête-à-tête at sea.”

Isaac Hull, who had thus early endeared himself in the hearts of his countrymen, and set a high mark for American sailors to aim at, was born near the little town of Derby, not far from New Haven, Connecticut, in the year 1775. He was early taken with a desire for the sea, and at the age of twelve years he went on board a vessel that had been captured by his father from the British during the Revolution.

Although he entered the navy at the age of twenty-three, he had already made eighteen voyages to different parts of Europe and the West Indies, and had seen many adventures and thrilling moments.

During the administration of John Adams there occurred “that exceedingly toilsome but inglorious service” of getting rid of the French privateers who infested the West Indian seas. During this quasi-war Hull was first lieutenant of the frigate Constitution under Commodore Talbot. In May, 1798, he had a chance to distinguish himself, and did not neglect the opportunity, although the upshot of it was tragic but bloodless.

It might not be out of place to relate the incident here. In the harbor Porto Plata, in the island of St. Domingo, lay the Sandwich, a French letter-of-marque. Hull was sent by his superior, in one of the cutters, to reconnoitre the Frenchman. On the way he found a little American sloop that rejoiced in the name of Sally. Hull threw his party of seamen and marines on board of her, and hid them below the deck. Then the Sally was put into the harbor, and, as if by some awkwardness, ran afoul of the Sandwich, which, as a jocose writer remarks, “they devoured without the loss of a man.” At the same time this rash proceeding was being carried on under the eyes (or, better, guns) of a Spanish battery, Lieutenant Carmick took some marines and, rowing ashore, spiked the guns. The Sandwich was captured at midday, and before the afternoon was over she weighed her anchor, beat out of the harbor, and joined the Constitution.

In the opinion of nautical judges this was the best bit of cutting-out work on record, for Hull’s men were outnumbered three to one; and if he had not taken precautions, the battery could have blown him out of the water. But, alas and alack! all this daring and bravery went for worse than naught. Spain complained of the treatment she had received, and the United States government acknowledged that the capture was illegal, having taken place in a neutral port. The Sandwich was restored to her French owners, and, worst of all, every penny of the prize money due the Constitution’s officers and men for this cruise went to pay the damages.

Before the war of 1812, Hull distinguished himself by his fearlessness and self-reliance during the Tripolitan war. The two occasions that gave him renown during our struggle with Great Britain have been recorded at length, and there is but to set down that, after the conclusion of the war with Great Britain, Commodore Hull was in command at the various stations in the Pacific and the Mediterranean, and departed this life on the 13th of February, 1843. Of him John Frost writes, in 1844, “He was a glorious old commodore, with a soul full of all noble aspirations for his country’s honor—a splendid relic of a departed epoch of naval renown.”