When They Burned the White House [Illustrated Edition]

This edition is published by PICKLE PARTNERS PUBLISHING—www.pp-publishing.com

To join our mailing list for new titles or for issues with our books—[email protected]

Or on Facebook

Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

WHEN THEY BURNED THE WHITE HOUSE

BY

ANDREW TULLY

Drawings by Milton Glaser

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 5

FOREWORD 6

[I]—BEACHHEAD 7

[II]—THE BRITISH ARE COMING 14

[III]—DEFENDERS OF THE CAPITAL 22

[IV]—RALLY TO THE CAUSE 28

[V]—REDCOATS ON THE MARCH 37

[VI]—COMPROMISE CITY 42

[VII]—DOLLY’S PALACE 49

[VIII]—CHAOS BY THE CAMPFIRES 58

[IX]—RABBLE ON THE FIELD 64

[X]—THE ROCKETS’ RED GLARE 72

[XI]—FLIGHT FROM WASHINGTON 80

[XII]—BURN IT, SIR! 87

[XIII]—A CASTLE IN FLAMES 93

[XIV]—USE YOUR OWN SOAP 101

[XV]—RETREAT—AND RETURN 109

[XVI]—IS THE FLAG STILL THERE? 118

[XVII]—THE PHOENIX RISES AGAIN 123

[XVIII]—IS IT PEACE? 131

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 137

DEDICATION

For Martha, Liz, Sheila,

Andrew and Mark

With Love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people helped, directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly, in the writing of this book about one of America’s darkest hours. Because so little had been written previously about the burning of Washington during the War of 1812, the research involved was extensive, and this required call after call upon the services and good nature of many selfless public servants devoted to the unearthing and dissemination of historical information.

The author owes a special debt to Mrs. Della Wilson who assisted in research and typing and in many other chores outside the wonted sphere of the casual assistant.

Special and interested help also was given without stint by the staffs at the Library of Congress, the District of Columbia Library, the Smithsonian Institution, the Columbia Historical Society, the office of the Architect of the Capitol, the White House and the Lincoln Museum. From time to time the author found assistance, too, among the members of the staff of Senator Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota and from various officials of the Department of Defense.

Finally, whatever worth there may be in this book was enhanced by the expert efforts of Robert Gottlieb, managing editor of Simon and Schuster, Inc., who kept the author from stumbling too much and is not responsible for whatever deficiencies may have been caused by the author’s literary idiosyncrasies.

ANDREW TULLY

Washington, D.C.

September 1, 1960

FOREWORD

One of the difficulties encountered in writing any book of this kind is the necessity for choosing between two or more sources which offer contradictory evidence. This was especially true in seeking out intelligence on the burning of Washington because the records are so scanty and incomplete. Sometimes, too, it seemed as if everybody with a pen and a piece of paper had a different version of what happened.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to favor the version which was in the majority—that is, to accept that evidence which was submitted by a preponderance of the sources consulted.

For instance, there is some disagreement as to whether Admiral Cockburn actually stood up in the Capitol and asked a vote on whether this harbor of Yankee democracy be burned. But the incident was reported too often to be ignored or to split hairs over its probable accuracy. Moreover, it sounded like something Cockburn would say; it had the Cockburn flavor.

There are documents, too, which dispute the report that when the British entered the White House they found a banquet prepared for President Madison’s expected supper guests. But history is most convincing on this point; there is the note Mrs. Jones, wife of the Secretary of the Navy, wrote Dolly Madison expressing her regrets she would not be able to be present at the feast.

Some sources claim that Joseph Gales, editor of the National Intelligencer, was visiting kinfolk during the burning of Washington. But more sources—including the estimable and painstaking Glenn Tucker—place him on the battle field as the first war correspondent in the weanling nation’s history. So that is where he is in this book.

Finally, there is the matter of the spelling of Mrs. Madison’s first name. Much has been made of the fact that she signed it Dolley. She did. But there are many documents also which show her signing it without the e—that is, Dolly. The author stuck with Dolly for this reason and because that spelling is more acceptable today.

Here and there, dialogue and the gestures of characters have been invented. That is unavoidable in any attempt to give life to what are sometimes the bare bones of a historical incident. But if an author lives with his characters for any decent length of time, he gets to know them and to acquire an idea of how they would speak and act in a given situation.

However, no liberties have been taken with historical facts as set down by sources both respected and in the majority. Within the limitations of the author, this is presented as an accurate and historically authentic story of the burning of Washington during the strange War of 1812.

ANDREW TULLY

[I]—BEACHHEAD

IN THE MOIST DAWN of August 19, 1814, Lieutenant George Robert Gleig of His Majesty’s 85th Light Infantry Regiment paced the deck of a ship-of-war as its captain prepared to drop anchor in the Patuxent River, eight miles below the little town of Benedict in the state of Maryland.

The American shore looked green and fresh even in the early heat which had set the river shimmering. After the long voyage from Spain via Bermuda, Gleig was anxious to set foot on dry land. He thought of fresh eggs, milk and vegetables, and water free of crawling things, and was determined to be in one of the first small boats to start up the river transporting the troops to land. But his eagerness betrayed him; he found himself with sixty men and a brother officer suddenly jammed into an unwieldy, broad-nosed punt with only two oarmen.

Damme, Gleig told the other officer, we’ll be on this blasted river all day.

Swiftly, Gleig calculated the boat’s progress; he decided it was moving upstream at a miserly half-mile per hour.

Why, we may as well jump in and swim, said Gleig. It will take us sixteen hours to reach Benedict. And in this broiling American sun.

Frantically, the two officers sought assistance from their fellows passing them in the speedier barges. Heave us a line! they yelled. Give us a tow!

Their comrades seemed to think it was funny. Hoots and vulgar suggestions greeted them. We’ll stop and pick you up on the way back, one officer shouted.

And another yelled, Why don’t you hire a blinking coach-and-four!

The impromptu vaudeville continued for more than an hour, while Gleig sweated and fumed and the men fidgeted and cursed the Royal Navy. It wasn’t until Gleig spotted a midshipman he had known in London that the punt was rescued. The midshipman acknowledged his obligation to friendship and threw them a line. Thereafter, they made good way up the river, although it was almost noon when Gleig’s boat touched shore at Benedict.

Gleig, an articulate and perceptive subaltern, may have sensed the history that hung over that steaming day. For he was a member of a punitive force dispatched to bring the war home to those raffish renegade Britons known as Americans The expedition’s plans were still flexible—that is, it was prepared to strike wherever circumstances dictated—but within a few days this British force would be setting the torch to the capital city of Washington, thirty-eight miles away.

Despite Great Britain’s official sneers at its quondam colonists, this was an elite force scrambling ashore at Benedict. It consisted of 5,123 men, composing four line regiments and a detachment of Marines, and almost all were hard-eyed veterans of the recent Peninsula campaign against Napoleon. Of this army, the 4th (King’s Own) and the 44th line regiments boasted brilliant records. On the first day of the American Revolution, the 4th had suffered forty-four casualties in protecting the British detachment which was forced back from Concord Bridge to Boston. Two months later, the 4th swarmed over the American trenches at Bunker Hill. The 44th had fought in the French and Indian War, and had passed in review with Washington’s Virginians at Fort Duquesne. Both had distinguished themselves in the attack that broke the French at Talavera, causing Wellington to remark that I could have done anything with that army. Compared to these regiments, Gleig’s 85th was a parvenu, having been formed in 1793, but in the same year it was mentioned several times in the Peninsula dispatches.

For reasons of strategy, the British command was split. Leading the troops was General Robert Ross, an Irish gentleman, graduate of Dublin’s Trinity College, and one of the major heroes of Wellington’s victory over the Corsican. He was a man with a calm air of assurance: an urbane individual and a strict disciplinarian capable of drilling troops ten hours a day in the quiet garrison at Malta. The British army commander had come to the Chesapeake directly from the Peninsula campaign, about which Wellington had commented: General Ross’ brigade distinguished themselves beyond all former precedent.

Those ships earmarked from Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane’s fleet for the invasion were under the command of Admiral Sir George Cockburn, able, brave and militarily profound, but a noisy swaggerer whose coarseness was infamous even for that seafaring day. Cockburn had spent nearly two years as a commander in the Chesapeake blockade in which he had raided and pillaged the cities and towns with the unthinking cruelty of a Mongol chieftain. American estimates calculated that Cockburn destroyed $1,500,000 worth of tobacco during the spring and summer of 1814. At Havre de Grace, Cockburn’s men burned or destroyed forty of the sixty houses, two taverns, ten stables, a blacksmith shop, a sawmill, a bridge, several ferryboats and a couple of stages. Later, when the British had moved on the village of Hampton, on the north shore of the James River, Cockburn promised his men booty and beauty, and they got both. Scores of women were raped, some of them by renegade Negro slaves who had been encouraged by the invaders to turn on their masters. A man named Kirby, who had been lying at the point of death for six weeks, was murdered in his bed; his wife took a bullet in the hip.

Cockburn shared in the loot, accepting two incongruous prizes at Havre de Grace. One was a carriage which had cost one thousand dollars, and the other was a sofa.

I’ll use the carriage, said Cockburn, to ride in triumph about the Yankee towns we capture.

The admiral enjoyed tossing off such remarks, which he regarded as the height of humor, and this one, like so many others, wound up in one of Cockburn’s letters to the profligate Prince Regent. That Royal Highness considered the war with America almost as side-splitting as the imbecilic antics of the aging King George III, in whose name the Prince had taken over the reins of Empire.

Cockburn and Ross were as different in military method as they were in bearing and in discipline, and when they first went ashore, near the mouth of the Potomac, they could not agree as to the proper strategy. Ross, a practical early-day intellectual, wanted to mount an attack on Baltimore. He pointed out its great commercial importance as the third largest city in the United States and one of the principal shipping centers of the fledgling "nation. Moreover, it was the home port of many of the American privateers-men which had been harrying British merchantmen for nearly two years.

But Cockburn held out for flexibility, for a plan that would keep the Americans off balance, and Ross finally agreed to it. The major portion of the fleet was to enter the Patuxent and the army was to debark and take a position from which it could strike at either Baltimore or Washington, or perhaps Annapolis. This, it was believed, would cause the Americans to divide their available forces so as to furnish protection for all three cities.

Meanwhile, a small flotilla under Captain James A. Gordon, commander of the frigate Seahorse, would sail up the Potomac, destroy Fort Washington, twelve miles below the capital, and lay siege to Alexandria. Then it would lie ready to cooperate with Ross if the general decided to attack Washington.

Ross wished he had more men. He knew he would have to leave a force at Benedict to protect the point where his troops undoubtedly would have to re-embark after accomplishing their business ashore. An additional detachment would have to be stationed along the route to guard a possible retreat and to maintain his supply line. But it couldn’t be helped, and, anyway, he had the quality which counted so much in an expedition of this kind.

Cockburn was to take his Marines up the river in tenders while Ross marched along the roadway so that the two could act together if they met opposition from the little American flotilla of tiny gunboats commanded by a gruff and irascible commodore named Joshua Barney, Barney’s fleet had given Cockburn much trouble during the Chesapeake campaign and now the doughty commodore waited with sixteen boats at Pig Point, fifteen miles up the Patuxent.

Cockburn was exultant. By God, he told Ross, at last I’m going to lay my hands on that Barney. I’ll make him pay for his bloody impudence.

Ross was not so sanguine. He pointed out that the only horse in the expeditionary force was his own mount, and that he was most deficient in artillery. There were plenty of guns with the fleet, but since seamen would have to drag them on the march, Ross could take with him only two three-pounders and one six-pounder.

The force also had a new and spectacular weapon which fascinated the men but left Ross unimpressed. This was the Congreve rocket, an invention of Sir William Congreve, a British artillery officer, who had first used it during Admiral Nelson’s bombardment of Copenhagen. It was a twelve-pound sheet-iron tube with a projectile at the head that exploded like an artillery shell.

Cockburn had first fired the rocket on American soil during his bombardment and sacking of Havre de Grace the summer before. But although the rocket’s red glare frightened some women and children, it was found ineffective as a weapon, since it had force only at short range and was difficult to aim with any precision. Ross could only hope that at least its hideous novelty might have a damaging psychological effect on the American defenders, although this thought afforded little consolation.

While Ross and Cockburn pondered problems of military strategy, Lieutenant George Robert Gleig’s concern was directed toward his new surroundings in the strange, deserted town of Benedict. It had been abandoned by its inhabitants when the news had come that the monster Cockburn was among the invading force.

The 85th Light Infantry Regiment bivouacked on a grassy slope just under the ridge of a low hill, and while the men were building cooking fires and getting out provisions, Gleig and some fellow-officers strolled about the town, curious to see how the Americans lived. They found most of the homes simple, consisting of few rooms and dominated by a large combination kitchen-living room with big fireplace. Each house had an attached dairy stocked with cheeses and crocks of milk whose sides glistened with moisture. To deter the men from looting, the word had been passed that the Americans had poisoned their food supplies, but Gleig’s appetite was not to be deterred by such a ruse. He drank more than a quart of the first milk he had seen in months, and helped himself to some cheese.

Another member of the British force—a private soldier—was getting his midday dinner in gayer company, with a romantic bonus thrown in. The soldier, identified in the records only as Stubbs, sneaked away from the bivouac in the middle of the confusion of the disembarkation and went rustling about the outskirts of Benedict to investigate the looting possibilities.

He was about to break into a small cottage, about a mile from the camp, when he heard a lilting—and unmistakably feminine—voice behind him. Please wait. Please wait, the voice was saying.

The soldier whirled and found himself confronted by a bucolic lass with long black hair and ample bosom poorly concealed by an off-the-shoulder smock.

I’ll open the door for you, she told Stubbs, and gave him a minxish smile. Stubbs examined her swiftly