The cost of dying in the Federal Navy

A recent article in the New York Times reports that the price of an American funeral these days averages about $8,000. [1] This staggering figure helps us understand how the funeral industry shovels in revenues in excess of $20 billion each year.  And with the annual death rate not expected to decline until the mid 2020s, the industry of dying is anything but a dying industry.

With caskets starting at $1,500, coupled with the price of embalming, a cemetery plot, a headstone, and the services of a funeral director, the price shelled out for a final resting place can quickly rise.

The thing is, the American way of death has always followed the ebb and flow of fashion, and has been as variable through the centuries as domestic architecture and clothing.

New England Puritans often spent vast sums burying the deceased.  While the coffin and a carved slate headstone accounted for some of the cost, much of the cash was spent on the living.  Mourning rings and suits, bell ringers at the meetinghouse, hearse and the horse to pull it, gloves for the mourners, and hearty amounts of food and drink increased the bill.  In fact, it was not unusual for funeral expenses to eat up twenty percent of the deceased’s estate.

The expenditures at last became so burdensome (and so out of keeping with the moral aesthetics of the Puritan theocracy), that Massachusetts passed sumptuary laws in 1721 restricting the amount people could spend on funeral gifts and trappings. [2] Sixty years later, people had become so lackadaisical in their treatment of the dead, Massachusetts legislators found it necessary to pass laws to ensure that they received at least a modicum of care. [3]

Death rates in America fell during the course of the 18th and early 19th centuries, but that didn’t mean death ceased to be visible part of everyday life.  For the sailors who manned the ships of the early United States Navy, premature death almost seemed the rule rather than the exception. Falls, drownings, and violent deaths occurred all the time.  Disease spread among a crew with ease, and in southern climates especially, yellow fever, malaria, or a host of other ailments could decimate seamen and officers alike.

The Navy’s bean-counters neatly filed away the expenses incurred for burying seamen and officers just as efficiently as they did purchases of door nails or copper sheathing.  At sea, burials tended to be simple, quick affairs.  But on shore, decorum and fashion demanded more care and elaboration.

Usually, the Federal government bore these expenses.  The elaborateness of the burial depended in large measure on the rank of the individual who died.

The coffins of Captain James Lawrence and Lieut. Augustus Ludlow.  Killed on board USS Chesapeake in June 1813, the two officers received a splendid funeral when their bodies were brought home later in the year.

When Lieutenant Benjamin Turner crossed the bar at New Orleans in 1807, his funeral cost $88.07, or more than twice what he made per month while alive.  Mr. Charles Depre provided 40 feet of cherry boards for his coffin.  New Orleans milliners supplied 67 yards of black crepe to drape the coffin and hearse.  There were 50 funeral cards (and a “carrier” to distribute them).  The Reverend Philander Chase charged $20 for his “offices” at the funeral, and lest he appear improperly attired, he needed a sash of cambric muslin and black ribbon for his hat.  The sexton, Henry Mitchell, submitted a bill for the use of the hearse and pall ($4) and for burying Lt. Turner ($4). [4] Altogether, the funeral must have been a fitting, if somber, send off for one the Navy’s promising young officers.

The expense for burying common seamen seemed paltry by comparison.  When sailor John Thompson died in March 1813, his funeral cost $18.25.  Undertaker John F. Nooton nickel and dimed the Navy Department.  He charged for digging the grave (eight feet deep, and $.50 extra because the ground was frozen), for a coffin and pall, for using the “Funeral Car” and the horse to pull it, for filling out the death certificate, for tolling the bell, for laying the corpse in the coffin, and for caring the corpse to the grave. [5]  These charges seem elaborate compared to those paid for the burial of USS Guerriere Seaman William White.  When he died in Philadelphia in September 1814, he was placed in a “stained coffin” costing $7 and the “horse, hearst & Grave” cost another $2.[6]

If nothing else, it is surprising the Navy willingly incurred these expenses.  At a time when the Navy Department was extremely parsimonious, questioning nearly every expenditure, the sums it spent to convey its officers and men to their final resting places convey a sense of obligation and care that was substantiated by other aspects of naval life.  The Navy took care of its own.



[1] Glaser, Gabrielle. "The Funeral: Your Last Chance to be a Big Spender," The New York Times. April 18, 2009.
[2]  David E. Stannard, The Puritan Way of Death: A Study in Religion, Culture, and Social Change (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 112-115.
[3]  Ibid., 159-160.
[4] Benjamin Turner accounts, Fourth Auditor of the Treasury, Numerical Accounts, No. 6359, RG 217, NARA.
[5]  John Nooton bill to Josiah Snelling, 23 March 1813, in Henry B. Rapp settled accounts, Fourth Auditor of the Treasury, Numerical Accounts, RG 217, NARA.
[6] George Ritter receipt, 21 September 1814, Fourth Auditor of the Treasury, Numerical Accounts No. 908, RG 217, NARA.

The Axeman Cometh

Back in January, we gave you a preview of a short film we’ve been working on.  It's the story of one very special axe.  Happily, that film is now finished!  It took many hands to produce.  Dr. Rob Martello of Olin College helped whip the script into shape.  Derek Heidemann of Resurrection Iron Works, along with Dave Wilson, expertly reproduced the axe from a bar of wrought iron.  Justin Kennick used the axe to hew a log at Coggeshall Farm in Bristol. RI.  Last, but certainly not least, MassHumanities provided the funds to make this all happen.

Not only does the film bring alive the story of one artifact, but it is intended to serve as a model for future film projects here at the museum.  We will strive to repeat this for other classes of artifacts.  For this reason, we aimed to keep production costs as low as possible, and did all of the editing in house.

We hope you enjoy the show!

An Offering to Valor

A tiny, tarnished cup hardly seems a fitting trophy for one of the Unites States Navy’s greatest victories, and yet like all artifacts, this piece of silver has a story to tell.

One of Perry's beakers, by Churchill and Treadwell, 1813-1814. Joseph Callender engraved the inscription. USS Constitution Museum collection.

 

Standing scarcely three inches tall, the silver beaker may lack presence- that is, until one reads the expertly engraved inscriptions.  It reads, “Presented by the Citizens of Boston to Com. O. H. Perry.”  That’s Oliver Hazard Perry, who led an American squadron to victory over its British counterpart on September 10, 1813.  Like Isaac Hull, Stephen Decatur, and William Bainbridge before him, Perry’s victory garnered him laurels- and a whole lot more.

News of the victory reached Boston on Sunday, September 26.  The Columbian Centinel described the reaction:

The news of the fresh success of our gallant officers and seamen upon Lake Erie has cheered every American heart, whatever opinion an individual may entertain of the principles which originated the war.
    On Sunday and elegant salute was fired on board the Constitution after divine [service] in the forenoon, under the direction of Capt. Stewart, in honor of the victory.  After the salute the men ascended the shrowds [sic] and gave three cheers, which were cordially returned by thousands of our citizens from the wharves and Copp’s hill.  Our brave and experienced tars have averted our fears; and more than realized our hopes, in single combat with the most brave, experienced, and powerful nation on earth; but we still entertain fears for them when they should fight in squadrons or fleets.  Com. Perry wears the first garland which the history of our nation will claim in this complicated system of engagement. [1]

The same edition of the newspaper carried a notice to those citizens of Boston “who are desirous of presenting…a SWORD, or some other appropriate token of respect, to Commodore PERRY,” that a committee would convene at the Exchange Coffee House that very day. [2]  The committee appointed Mr. John Coffin Jones chairman, and by October 4 the committee had obtained enough pledges to commission an elegant sword and pieces of silver tableware (universally called “plate” in the period) for the commodore.  Moreover, if any funds were left over, they were to be transmitted to Perry, who would be instructed to distribute them to “all or any of the indigent widows, orphans or other distressed relatives of the brave Americans who fell in the contest.” [3]

The headline in the Columbian Centinel of September 29, 1813 announcing the victory.

For the pieces of plate, the committee turned to Boston silversmiths Jesse Churchill and Daniel Treadwell.  In their shop at 88 Newbury St., they turned out beautifully executed flagons, bowls, communion cups, and a whole host of other silver wares. As the Boston Daily Advertiser modestly proclaimed, “their zeal and fidelity deserve commendation, and the elegance of the workmanship, it is believed, cannot be surpassed in America.” [4]

Perry visited Boston on May 1, 1814, where he was wined, dined, and paraded through the streets.  No doubt the silversmiths hurried to finish the commission before he left town, but it wasn’t ready until May 17.  The committee detached two young gentlemen to Newport, where they presented the hero with the plate “in behalf of the citizens.”  Perry gratefully accepted the gift, and made an appropriately theatrical reply: “the flattering encomiums contained in the letter, and the elegant and splendid present, have excited the warmest sentiments of gratitude; and while recollection retains her empire over my mind, the kindness and liberality of the citizens of Boston will ever be properly appreciated by one who has so largely participated in their civilities.” [5]

The work certainly was fine, but compared to the silver presented to naval heroes by the citizens of Philadelphia and New York, these Boston pieces were positively austere.  Was it Yankee thrift that did way with the dolphins and tridents, eagles in full relief, and the heads of Neptune?  The centerpiece of the set, a wine cooler or ice pail, survives in the collection of the Mead Art Museum at Amherst College.  Rings or beckets grasped in eagles’ beaks project somewhat awkwardly from the side, but otherwise the decoration is reduced to a narrow egg and dart motif at the rim and foot. 

The beaker or cup in our collection mirrors the cooler’s decorative scheme.  This is one of four beakers known to survive.  Much of the set was, sadly, stolen from Perry’s descendents decades ago.


[1] Columbian Centinel, 29 Sept. 1813.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid., 6 Oct. 1813.
[4] Boston Daily Advertiser, 27 May 1814.
[5] New England Palladium, 27 May 1814.

A Veteran’s Story

In the past, this blog has brought you personal stories of American sailors- their small triumphs and tragic endings, their daily struggles and memorable reminiscences.   Now we bring you the life of a British seaman whose career ended badly on August 19, 1812.

In about 1823, one George Emmerson applied to the British government for a pension.  He’d been wounded in the service of King and country, and like so many injured seamen in the wake of the long Napoleonic Wars, had to support himself as well as he could.

His application consisted of a “memorial” written in his own had.  The following transcription preserves his somewhat erratic punctuation and charming phonetic spellings:

Memorial of George Emmerson able seaman and Sailmaker – in His Majestys Service from June 1803 to January 11th 1813

I Entered into His Majesty Service at North Shields in June 1803 – I had then been about four years in the coal trade – from London to Shields in a brig belonging [to] London.  On my arrival at the Nore I was drafted on board the Colossus 74 then a new ship on her first going to sea.  July 7th 1803 – Captain Martin Commander, - who afterwards was succeeded [by] Captain J. N. Morris in 1804 who also commanded the Colosus in the Battle of Trafalgar.  Our Captn was wounded in the knee – I was in the Battle of Trafalgar in the Colossus – for which Battle I have a medal – our ship took the Bohemy and the Swiftshour [1], they both struck to our ship – after an Engagement of about five hours – our killed and wounded was about 200 [2] – our ship was then sent home to Portsmouth, - I then joined the Canada 74 – Decr 12th 1805, Capt John Harvey Commander we sailed to Barbados, from there we joined the Squadron on that station, - We sail’d after the French Squadron and chased them but lost them in the night of[f] the Island of Toutoler [3] – the Cannada was sent home and laid up at Chatham in January 1808, - at Chatham I passed the yard as a master sailmaker, and have my certificate from Chatham Dock yard (and I received my warrant after at Halifax, signed by Sir John B. Worren. – I was appointed to the Guerrier 38 Capt Alexr Skene commander – I joined the Guerriere the 4th day of January 1808. – We sailed to Jamaca – had the duke of Manchester on board, the governor of Jamaca. – from Jamaco we came on the Halifax Station, and sir J. Peachel joined our Ship [as] our commander, - afterwards Captain J. Richd Dacres who was our commander in the action, with the Ammerican ship Constitution 50 Guns – the Guerriere being dismasted and in a sinking state, surrendered – to the Enemy – in the action I was badly wounded I received a musket shot in my left legg in a downward direction the shot passed down my legg from the calfe to the instep and ledge there and the shot broke the bone of my legg in a shatterd manner. – I suffered much from pain, being prisoner and moved about so often from ship to ship, and was put on a currintine Island [4], then move to Charlstown Hospital in the States- there I got my legg set after 14 days, - in about fourteen days more, I was exchanged and sent by the Carteel Ship to Halifax Nova Scotia, from that Hospital I was sent home by the Africa to Plymouth or Haisburouh Hospital, - Octr 1812, - at the Hospital I was discharged uncured January 11th 1813 – I Received a ticket from Grinwich Hospital for four pounds per annom – which I now still receve yearly – I was 10 years in the service – but being ignorant of the numbers of years Servitude required for a pension prevented me from applying for a pension for servitude 10 years, -

A “Ticket granting privileges to the Marine Hospital at Charlestown, with engraving,” Center for the History of Medicine: OnView, accessed May 8, 2014, http://collections.countway.harvard.edu/onview/items/show/6143.  George Emmerson was treated for his wounds here in 1812.

Emerson had been born in St. Georges, East London in 1786, to sailmaker William Emmerson, and like so many Englishmen of the period, went to sea at an early age.[5]  The government long considered the coal trade the nursery of the Royal Navy, and it produced a huge number of trained seamen in the 18th and 19th centuries.  Hungry for the men, naval officers frequently plucked sailors from colliers to make up deficiencies in their crews.  Emmerson volunteered for the arduous service, however.

It must have seemed as if he lived a charmed life.  He survived the Battle of Trafalgar without a scratch, and three years later he had received a sailmaker’s warrant, insuring him a steady billet and a steady income.

And then he got posted to the Guerriere.  We know how that ended.  Besides being a tragedy for the Royal Navy, it was a personal one for George Emmerson.  And yet, his later life had its share of joy.

He married a woman named Elizabeth and they had five children before she died of a “bowel Complaint” in 1826.  The following year George married another woman named Elizabeth who bore him five more children (two of them died in infancy). [6]

George had established himself as a sailmaker in Isleworth by the 1840s, but in April 1846 all his hard work went up in smoke.

Fire at Isleworth.—Shortly before ten o'clock on the eve of Good Friday, a fire broke out in Northumberland-wharf, Brentford-end, Isleworth, upon the premises in the occupation of Mr. George Emmerson, sail maker. Engines attended from New and Old Brentford, two private, and others from Richmond, Ealing, Chiswick, and the brigade stations in the west of the metropolis. The fire was not subdued until a shed, used for warming oil and tar for tarpaulins, and the counting-house over it, were burned down. The contents of a sail loft, 36 feet by 30, were seriously damaged, the roof burned off, and the stock in the adjoining granary, 45 feet by 24, belonging to Messrs. Keene and Blake, lightermen, considerably damaged by fire and water. It is not known how the fire originated, Mr. Emmerson is insured for the contents in the Globe-office; building, in the Phoenix. Messrs. Keene and Blake are insured for the contents and building in the Globe Fire-office. [7]

After that, the record goes silent.  By this time, George was nearing 60 years old, and it is likely he declined in health and stamina.  We’ve not yet determined when he died, but he must have told some amazing stories to his family before he went.

Emmerson's signature from his pension request.

We are indebted to Mr. Mark Ellis and Ms. Sarah Emmerson for sharing George Emmerson's memorial with us.

[1] That is, the  Bahama (74) and the Swiftsure (74).
[2] The Colossus suffered the highest casualty rate of all the British fleet- nearly 35%.
[3] Tortola.
[4] Rainsford Island, in Boston Harbor.
[5] Frederick Arthur Crisp, Fragmenta Genealogica, Vol 7, (London, 1902), 17.
[6]Ibid., 17-19.
[7] London Daily News, 11 April 1846

Water, water, everywhere

Ah, water.  Another one of the luxuries of modern living we take for granted.  In most of the western world we turn on the tap and out flows clean, fresh water.  We use it for cooking, bathing, and drinking.  And we waste a shocking amount of it watering our flower beds and lawns, and washing our cars, sidewalks and a hundred other things that could be cleaned just as well with non-potable water.

Scarcity increases a commodity’s value, and when you’re without water, it becomes very valuable very quickly.  Sailors in the early navy learned this as soon as the land slipped below the horizon.

Even though Barnaby Slush could claim, “liquor is the very cement that keeps the mariner’s body and soul together,” water was far more important to his well being at sea. “Seamen,” as one doctor commented, “in consequence of their salt diet, drink a great quantity of water, unless on an allowance.”[1]  David Porter, in command of USS Essex during a long sea voyage, understood the importance of fresh water when surrounded by an ocean of salt:

As to our water, none could be sweeter or purer; it had not undergone the slightest change.  And the only fact I think it necessary to state in support of this assertion is, that a live mullet, nearly three quarters of an inch in length, was this day pumped from a cask filled with the water in the river Delaware: had this water undergone any corruption, the fish could not certainly have existed in it.  This little fish I have put in a bottle of its native water, with a view of preserving it alive.  From its size, I should suppose it to have been produced from the spawn while in the cask.  The water taken in at St. Catharines [on the coast of Brazil], was found to be equally good; and my own experience now enables me to assure all navigators, that the only precaution necessary to have good water at sea is, to provide casks made of well seasoned staves, have them cleansed, and filled with pure water.  Should it be necessary at any time (for the trim or safety of the ship, which is sometimes the case) to fill them with salt water, particular care must be taken that they be filled and well soaked, and cleansed with fresh water before they are filled with the water intended for use.  These particulars, as I have before observed, have never been neglected by me since I had the command of a vessel; and consequently no one on board has ever suffered from the use of bad water.  This is an object that well merits the attention of every commander, when the chief comfort and the health of his crew are so much dependent thereon.  For who has experienced, at sea, a greater enjoyment than a draught of pure water?  Or who can say that the ship-fever and scurvy do not originate, frequently, in the stinking and disgusting water which seamen are too often driven to the necessity of drinking at sea, even when their stomachs revolt at it?[2]

If seamen had no qualms about drinking water in which fish had spawned, how truly vile was the average cask of water after being stowed for several months?   

This plate from Edmund Blunt's 1813 Seamanship, Both in Theory and Practice demonstrates the proper stowage of a ship's hold, including the "ground tier" and "riding teir" composed primarily of large water casks.

The arid regions of the world to which American vessels ventured often could not provide enough water to replenish the supply.  Crews made every attempt to gather passing showers with rain awnings, but they had trouble restocking this vital resource without filling water casks at a proper spring or pool.  According to Navy regulations, “one half gallon of water at least shall be allowed every man [per day] in foreign voyages, and such further quantity as shall be thought necessary on the home station, but on particular occasions the captain may shorten this allowance.”[3]   This edict referred only to the water allowed for drinking, which on a frigate with a crew of 450 meant that the crew consumed at least 225 gallons of water per day.  This figure, however, does not include the water expended for cooking, which might require as much as 150 gallons per day.  When Constitution sailed from Boston in December1813, she had on board approximately 47,000 gallons. [4] According to the testimony of Lt. Henry Ballard, the crew was allotted  “250 Gallons, except on pea & rice days when it was 280 till the first of February after which grog water being allowed 310 gallons except on pea & rice days; when it was 340.”[5]

A diagram of Constitution's "riding tier," or second layer of casks, in 1844.  In 1820, the Navy specified that each 44 gun frigate should have ten 250 gallon casks, ten of 200 gallon, 130 of 100 gallons, ten of 75 gallons,  forty of 50 gallons, thirty of 40 gallons, thirty of 20 gallons, thirty of 15 gallons, and seventy of 8 gallons, for a total of 33,860 gallons!

A water shortage could mean hardship for a crew, especially since it was vital for preparing and cooking salt meat.   Marine Fifer Thomas Byron remembered the situation on board Constitution when the water ran low:

Now I will state our sufferings on the night we crossed the equinoctial line, that night all hands came near dying for want of water.  A number were dipping up with tin pots the water that had fallen from a small shower into the boats on deck and mixed with the salt water that had flew [sic] over the side into it also old tobacco chews which the men had thrown into the boats and they had to drink it.  About daylight it began to rain as it generally does in crossing the line and we were very glad but was not allowed to catch a drop for our messes untill [sic] it was all over, but had to get up casks and spread sails over the deck and fill them and strike them down into the hole [sic].  This was the way we had to live.  Every shower the men would run with their pots and cans and stop the scupper holes up to catch the water that fell on deck, dirty as it was they had to use it and sometimes it was so tarry that they could hardly swallow it others running & catching a little here and there upon the painted hamms [sic: hammock cloths] or some other place which would be so painty that it was almost impossible to use it, this was hard for us and I will now account to my readers for it in the first place we dare not venture into a port in the day time so that the enemy could blockade us and having but six months provisions and water on board and daily taking prisoners to help drive it up.  We had to put up with two thirds rations of provisions and three pints of water for twenty four hours, this was the cause of the great suffering on board as the men could not eat the salt grub without water and this caused Captain Steward [sic] to search out a by place [sic] to get water, so we run off to Juan Fernandez the place where Robinson Crusoe was cast away...[6]

However sailors obtained fresh water, it was always a consumed gratefully.  We landlubbers don’t know how good we have it.

[1] Edward Cutbush, Observations on the Means of Preserving the Health of Soldiers and Sailors, (Philadelphia, Thomas Dobson: 1808), 119
[2] David Porter, Journal of a Cruise Made to the Pacific Ocean, reprint edition (Upper Saddle River, N.J.: The Gregg Press, 1970), 75-76.
[3] Naval Regulations Issued by Command of the President of the United States of America, January 25, 1802 (reprint ed., Annapolis, Md., Naval Institute Pres, 1970), 26.
[4] Court of Inquiry Record, Captain Charles Stewart, May 1814, RG45, M239, Roll 7, DNA
[5] It was common practice for the men to be allowed to drink at will from the scuttlebutt.  On Constitution, the scuttlebutt was located on the spar deck, beside the mainmast.  See reference to this in the Trial of Quarter Gunner Thomas McCumber, 5 July 1811 (101), M273, Records of General Courts-Martial and Courts of Inquiry, 1799-1867, National Archives. 
[6] Thomas Byron, “The Narrative of the Cruises of the U.S. Frigate Constitution,” USS Constitution Museum.

Get the Lead Out

As noted frequently in these pages, the early American Navy fondly embraced innovations that gave it a measure of superiority over its opponents.  From stoutly constructed frames and bracing members to patent lighting devices and repeating swivel guns, the US Navy’s ships were filled with new inventions calculated to burnish Yankee reputations. 

And yet, for years the Navy has been given credit for one innovation that seems to have never been employed in actual service: the lead foil cartridge.

The business about the Americans using lead foil or sheet cartridges during the War of 1812 appears to have originated with British lawyer and author William James. In his Naval History of Great Britain he writes:

We have before remarked upon the great care and expense bestowed by the Americans in equipping their few ships of war. As one important instance may be adduced, the substitution of fine sheet-lead for cartridges, instead of flannel or paper. This gives a decided advantage in action, an advantage almost equal to one gun in three; for, as a sheet-lead cartridge will hardly ever leave a particle of itself behind, there is no necessity to spunge the gun, and very seldom any to worm it: operations that, with paper or flannel cartridges, must be attended to every time the gun is fired. The advantage of quick firing, no one can dispute; any more than, from the explanation just given, the facility with which it can be practised by means of the sheet-lead cartridge. The principal objection against the use of this kind of cartridge in the british navy is its expense: another may be, that it causes the powder to get damp. The last objection is obviated by filling no more cartridges than will serve for present use; and, should more be wanted, the Americans have always spare hands enough to fill them.[1]

It is easy to see how something so simple could give a ship a decided advantage in battle.  Removing the need to sponge and worm a gun significantly sped up the loading time.   The problem with James’s account, however, is that all the contemporary American purchasing receipts for the Navy that we’ve seen refer only to flannel cartridges.  A perusal of over 800 original receipts for supplies purchased for the Boston Navy Yard and the ships outfitting there during the War of 1812 reveals the Navy bought hundreds of yards of wool flannel for cartridges (or cylinders, as they were typically called in the period).  These were cut to a standard pattern and sewn up either at the Navy Yard or on board ship by the gunner and his mates.  In fact, Gunner George Marshall's Practical Marine Gunnery (1822) gives a pattern and discusses how the cylinders should be made.  In addition, all the ordnance manuals for the US Navy right up through the Civil War specify flannel cartridges.

A plan of a double cylinder former, from Marshall's Practical Marine Gunnery.  The former was made of 1/2 inch white pine or poplar plank.  To former's length was three times the diameter of the gun's bore, while the width was the same dimension minus 3/4 of an inch.  The loaders placed the rounded end in the muzzle first, with the seam downwards.

  
Receipts for "gunner's Department" stores taken on board Constitution in October 1812 mention "2 Rolls Sheet Lead,” but it is likely the gunner used this to make vent covers (to keep water out of the cannon vent)  and not powder cylinders.

Despite the lack of evidence for their use, there is evidence that Americans had contemplated the idea.  In 1811, none other than future Secretary of the Navy William Jones wrote a long letter to the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia extolling the benefits of lead foil cartridges. According to Jones,

[I]n the year 1805, when at Canton in China, I caused to be made one hundred cartridges of thin sheet lead, with a portion of tin, to give it more tenacity.—One half were of six, and the other of four, pounder calibre; I have yet remaining between 80 and 90.— The whole cost five dollars; but if the order had been for a considerable quantity, the price would doubtless have been much reduced.
     On my passage that year in the ship Ploughboy, from Canton to Philadelphia, I took an opportunity to make a fair experiment, and fired six rounds from a four pounder in quick succession, by instantly inserting the charge without spunging; and then upon cleaning out the gun, I found only a small portion of lead, nearly of the size and form of mustard seed shot, and in quantity only sufficient to cover a surface of an inch square.
    The lead cartridge may be perforated with as much ease as paper; and as it is not necessary to ram home the charge, or prime the gun, until intended to be used, it may remain at all times in the gun, ready for service, without injury from wet or damp.[2]

In light of Jones’s interest in the subject, it would seem reasonable that he might have ordered the new cartridges into service, at least experimentally, after he took the reins of the Navy Department in 1813.  And yet, as noted before, we can find no evidence of their manufacture or use.

It is interesting to note that in the post war reports of British officers visiting the United States to review the state of the American Navy, not one of them mentioned lead cartridges.  They were quite enamored of new gun locks, dispart sights, boarding caps, improved rudder heads, and Chamber's repeating muskets and swivels, but not a one of them said anything of the use of lead cartridges.

[1] William James, The Naval History of Great Britain, vol. 6 (London: Harding, Lepard and Co., 1826), 148-149.
[2] Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Held at Philadelphia for Promoting Useful Knowledge, Vol. 1 (Philadelphia: A. Small, 1818), 137-145.

A Marblehead Escape

Throughout the War of 1812, fortune smiled on Constitution. She handily bested her foes in battle, but she was also incredibly adroit at evading capture by superior forces.  At the very beginning of the war, her crew prevented the ship from falling victim to a large British squadron off New York.  Tomorrow marks the 200th anniversary of her second miraculous escape.  This time she was fortunate to have the town of Marblehead, Massachusetts under her lee.

After a thorough refit in Boston, Constitution slipped out to sea on the last day of December 1813 and headed for the West Indies.  Between the middle of January and the end of March, the ship captured only four vessels, including a 13-gun Royal Navy schooner. 

Before leaving Boston, Captain Charles Stewart installed some experimental iron provision tanks, but these had started to leak, spoiling much of the ship’s supply of beef.  In addition, the ship’s stem sprung a leak, making about 30 inches of water in 10 hours.  While chasing a Spanish schooner near Bermuda on March 19, the ship made a number of heavy pitches into steep seas and cracked the mainmast nearly its whole length.  Added to the ship’s problems, some of the crew developed scurvy.  In light of these issues, Stewart decided to return to the United States as soon as possible.

Constitution stayed well out to sea to avoid the British blockading squadron in Massachusetts Bay, and finally made landfall off Cape Ann on the evening of April 2, 1814.  The crew ran aloft to shorten sail, and the ship hovered off the coast until daylight on April 3.  Stewart first intended to sail for Portsmouth, NH, but the wind shifted to the north east, making Boston a better choice.  At 8 AM, the wind shifted round again to the north northwest and nearly died away.  At about the same time, the masthead lookouts spied two square-rigged vessels standing toward Constitution with a fresh breeze from the east- a breeze that had not yet reached the Americans.  Soon, the lookouts could tell that the ships were frigates, and the only frigates cruising in company in those waters had to be British.

In fact, they were HMS Tenedos and HMS Junon, two frigates rated to carry 38 guns, but actually armed with 46.  Together, they were more than a match for Constitution. 

Constitution’s unusual paint job initially perplexed the British crews.  Junon's Captain Clotworthy Upton afterwards wrote to Admiral Griffiths in Halifax, saying, “She was painted with a single Yellow Streak, black Stern, and her entire line so perfectly straight, that when her hull first rose above the Horizon, I could scarcely persuade myself she was more than a Corvette.”  As they drew closer, however, he could see she was one of the large American frigates:  “I know of no other Ship which would answer the description,” he wrote, “except President; that she is an American I have no doubt.”

The breeze no longer favored reaching Portsmouth, and if Constitution couldn’t weather Cape Ann and Thatcher Island, they’d be trapped in Ipswich Bay, with no safe haven under their lee.

At 9:15, with a light breeze, Stewart ordered all sail set and steered to the south.  The British ships continued to close quickly, still riding the easterly breeze toward shore.  As they got closer, Constitution’s seamen began to lighten the ship.  First they “started” the water by breaking down the water casks and pumping it overboard.  The broken staves and barrel hoops went in after. Spare yards stowed amidships were next, followed by some beef and pork.   With the ship settling too much by the stern, Stewart ordered 1500 gallons of rum pumped over the side- a true tragedy for the crew!

Jettisoning  the stores worked, because by 10:30 the officers could tell they were drawing away from the British.  The wind that carried the enemy inshore finally reached Constitution, and she slowly drew away from her pursuers.

A plate from Horace Kimball’s The Naval Battles of the United States in the Different Wars with Foreign Nations, 1857. The artist got the name of the second British ship wrong, and probably had never laid eyes on Marblehead.

Stewart and his crew now faced another dilemma.  Where there more British ships off the approaches to Boston Harbor?  If so, they’d be caught between the Tenedos and Junon and whatever waited for them to the south.  So, instead of risking a southerly course, Stewart headed for Salem, where he knew he could anchor in safety near the batteries protecting the town.

Unfortunately no one on board Constitution knew how to pilot a large ship into Salem Harbor.  Sailing a fishing smack among the rocks and ledges was one thing, but bringing in a 1900-ton warship was something else altogether.  Captain Stewart knew he had a large number of Marblehead seamen on board, and the battery at the mouth of Marblehead Harbor would probably deter the British from following him in.  He first asked Quartermaster Samuel Anderton to pilot the ship through the rocky channel, but Anderton thought Quartermaster Samuel Harris Green, who had sailed as a ship’s master out of the port, would be a more suitable choice.  Green, laid up from a leg injury suffered weeks earlier, hobbled on deck and directed the helmsmen.

At noontime, Constitution rounded Halfway Rock, and stood into Marblehead Harbor. Meanwhile, on shore, the whole countryside followed the chase.  At first, there was great consternation in Marblehead, when citizens saw three frigates under full sail bearing down on the town.  Many thought there were three British ships coming to attack them. Because the light wind came from astern, Constitution’s spanker - the aftermost gaff-rigged sail - blanketed her ensign.  Stewart must have sensed this, because he ordered a sailor to shimmy out to the peak of the gaff to clear the flag.  As soon as the people on shore saw the stars and stripes, they sent up a cheer, and the gunners at Fort Sewall, members of the 40th Regiment, US Infantry under the command of Captain John Bailey, shifted their aim from Constitution to the British ships.

A late 19th-century painting of Constitution's escape - somewhat more accurate.  US Navy Art Collection.

At 1:30 Constitution’s anchor splashed down in Marblehead Harbor.  The two British ships weren’t willing to risk sailing into unknown waters or face shore batteries, so they gave up the chase and stood about six miles offshore, where they hove too, waiting and watching.

Despite the guns of Fort Sewall, Stewart feared Marblehead’s defenses didn’t offer enough protection to his ship.  He thought the British might wait until nightfall to attack, and he wanted to put the ship in a more secure anchorage before they struck.  Luckily, at 4 PM the wind shifted to the south east.  Stewart seized the opportunity to sail around to Salem Harbor, where he’d be protected by the guns at Fort Pickering.  By now, he had a proper Salem pilot on board, Joseph Perkins, and at 5:30 the ship came to an anchor across from Crowninshield Wharf.

The local newspapers were happy to crow about the successful escape of their favorite frigate.  The Salem Gazette recounted the efforts of the local populace, and concluded that in Salem Harbor “she is considered in a state of security… her crew is in fine condition [excluding those with scurvy, presumably], and her safe return is hailed with joy.”  The Salem Register echoed these sentiments, saying, “she now triumphantly rides in safety to the great joy of our citizens, who felt so lively an interest in the welfare of this celebrated ship, and her gallant officers and crew.”  Report of the ship’s arrival in Marblehead reached Boston the same day, and the Boston Gazette claimed that if news of her getting safe into Salem had not reached town by Monday morning, “a force from 10 to 12,000 men with a considerable train of artillery would have been in Marblehead, to defend their favorite Constitution.”

After a week and half, the coast was clear and the ship made a quick passage down to Boston.  It would be another eight months before Constitution went to sea again.  This time, she’d fight and capture two ships at once, and then narrowly escape from yet another British squadron.