1
Ogdensburg, New York, October 4, 1812
Jacob Jennings Brown, brigadier general, New York State Militia, lowered his spyglass and slowly collapsed it. He stood quietly, in deep thought, on a grassy slope overlooking the St. Lawrence River and pondered the enemy’s force arrayed before him. Several ships—flat-bottomed bateaux carrying men and supplies, a few sloops perhaps, and gunboats certainly—appeared bunched together on the other side of the river, their distant hulls rocking gently with the fluid movements of the water. The gray-green beauty of the Canadian shoreline dwarfed the small armada, but the threat nonetheless was clear.
Brown shifted his focus inland, to the small Canadian town of Prescott. He watched the busy, structured movement of men and supplies as it stretched from the town to the boats. Like an army of ants, he thought, carrying bits of food and debris. He kept the spyglass at his side, did not want to be influenced by the altered image. At least for the moment.
Jacob Brown was described by his men as fair, brave, and occasionally temperamental. He possessed sharp gray eyes capable of intimidating nearly any man in an instant. And yet, those eyes would soften to a warm glow at the sight of his children. A man of his word, Brown was honest, reliable and persistent. New York’s governor, Daniel Tompkins, had selected him to command the state’s defenses in this region for a very good reason: given his character and abilities, Brown was the only man capable of accomplishing such a job.
Standing at Brown’s side, Colonel James McGuire squinted into the early morning sun. Tall, rangy, and perhaps a bit too aggressive, he was also an excellent officer upon whom Brown could completely rely in any situation. McGuire’s left cheek bulged with a plum-sized serving of chewing tobacco, giving him the appearance of a chipmunk with enough food packed in its pouch to last the winter. He was eager to share with Brown the fact that Dolley Madison also enjoyed snuff, but the general was always quick to point out that she used it in moderation. And what was worse, McGuire indiscriminately spat the stuff anywhere—even his boots glistened with it.
Brown gently slapped the spyglass against his right thigh. “Colonel, I want the 8-pounders primed and ready immediately. Have the boys load all four guns with grape. If the enemy makes a move to cross over, I want it halted before it even gets started.”
McGuire nodded, shifting his chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. “Seems, sir, they intend to make a show of it. They plan on sending the whole village over here?” he said with a thick New York accent.
Brown extended the glass and handed it to McGuire. “Take a look, tell me what you see.”
McGuire leveled the telescope on the Canadian shoreline. After a moment, he said, “Maybe thirty or forty bateaux, a couple gunboats, militiamen climbing everywhere…officers on horseback. Damn fools look like they’re having a party over there, really enjoying themselves from what I can see.” He scanned slowly, back and forth, up and down. “Looks to be about a thousand Canadian militia, even a company or two of light infantry.”
Brown nodded. “Then we’re agreed.” The lithely built, thirty-seven-year-old militia general rubbed his stubble-roughened jaw distractedly, his mind chewing on issues of strategy and defense. “I doubt they’ll send over more shot, though.” Brown grinned and said, “They can’thave any left.”
Two days ago, the enemy had bombarded Ogdensburg with several hundred cannon balls. Following the barrage, balls littered the ground like hailstones after a heavy storm. Brown had ordered his men to collect each one. When sufficient quantities of gunpowder arrived—and he could only guess when that would be—he would return the balls in a similar manner. All three hundred and seven of the damnable things.
McGuire lowered the glass and offered it back to Brown. “They’ll be pushing off any time now.” The lanky colonel shook his head and spat another stream of tobacco juice, barely missing Brown’s boots this time. “I’d better get the boys loading up the grape so we can show them a proper welcome.”
“Let’s show them how New Yorkers fight.” Brown returned the colonel’s salute and extended the spyglass once more. The Canadian militiamen were boarding the flatboats now in substantial numbers and the last supplies were being tied down.
Let them come. There will be the devil to pay!
Turning his back to the river, he walked to the nearest 9-pounder. He watched his men load the grapeshot—a canister consisting of several iron balls tied together around a spindle—and prime the weapon for firing. He looked again across the St. Lawrence. Somewhat less than a mile separated them, he estimated. It was perfect, just the ideal range for grapeshot.
óóó
Later that morning, they came.
The American defenders were ready, confident. Brown watched through a spyglass as twenty-five bateaux filled with an estimated six hundred men pushed free from the far shore and made their way south by east. Two gunboats pressed ahead like protective parents to shield the defenseless troop carriers.
McGuire would let go with the grape as soon as the Canadians were within range. The man knew his job.
Brown, hands on hips, stood now near a fortified gun emplacement. Alongside him two 8-pounders were waiting, the flatboats already in their sights. This redoubt had been built on a small, fist-shaped promontory that extended northward from the original shoreline. It was ideal, the perfect defensive location—and the enemy force was heading straight for it.
Glancing behind him, to the southeast, he knew no help would be offered by the still-unfinished Fort Oswegatchie. As yet unmanned, it had been designed by the Americans to replace the old French garrison at the western end of the city, Fort La Presentation. The old fortress was in ruins and located across the Oswegatchie River from Ogdensburg; with only a small bridge connecting the two places, Brown had realized at once that La Presentation offered little in the way of protection.
Brown had also placed one brass 8-pounder on a wharf along the eastern edge of the city, precisely where the Oswegatchie River joined the St. Lawrence. He wanted to make sure all possible approaches by river could be covered by his guns.
In Brown’s estimation, Ogdensburg was not designed to be a major base of operations; on the contrary, the place had been selected to function as a small station from which his men could molest British and Canadian shipping as it flowed along the St. Lawrence. It was his hope that American raids originating from Ogdensburg would sever the umbilical cord between Upper and Lower Canada.
To the west, along the southeastern shore of Lake Ontario, Brown was also working diligently to strengthen and prepare the site that was serving as the major base for naval operations in this theatre: Sackett’s Harbor. It was a perfect location, well protected, capable of servicing a large number of warships, and only 45 miles from Britain’s primary naval base on the lake, Kingston. Further, there was abundant timber available for building and repair work. Lt. Melancthon Woolsey, a naval officer, had successfully recommended the site in 1809.
Brown turned to the young captain in charge of the two 9-pounders. The boy’s eyes were riveted on McGuire, his sword high in the air. Nine men, commanded by a sergeant, manned each of the two guns. Once the captain received the word, the two guns would commence their deafening and deadly work.
McGuire swung his sword downward, aggressively, as if trying to emphasize the command with the exaggerated gesture.
The gunnery captain turned and yelled at the two gun crews: “Give ‘em grape!”
The sergeants turned to their men and both guns fired, nearly simultaneously.
Brown was fortunate, as the wind briskly ushered the billowing canon smoke away from him; his view was clear and unimpeded. Within seconds, the swinging, deadly projectiles were amid the Canadian flotilla. Most splashed harmlessly—though forcefully—into the choppy river. Impressive geysers were heaved skyward, showering any nearby flatboats with considerable water.
The impacts were silent, given the distance, but visually striking nonetheless. If any battered one of the flatboats or hit a gunboat, Brown could not tell.
As the men reloaded the 9-pounders, they also adjusted the aim. Their accuracy would be better this time. Brown extended his spyglass with the intent of seeing the results of the next salvo up close.
Within mere seconds, the guns once again spewed forth their deadly projectiles. The thunderous thump of the guns shook and pounded Brown’s body as if it were made of soft clay; he could feel the rolling concussion that accompanied the discharge. He squeezed his eyes shut, rode out the horrendous sensation. Then, quickly, he had the spyglass up.
He watched as grape tore through the two masts of one of the gunboats like a sword tearing through a spider’s fragile webbing. The masts collapsed and fell clumsily into the river, the attached sails flailing helplessly in their wake.
Another projectile spun its way into one of the flatboats, obliterating half of the two dozen occupants. It was a bloody, horrid scene, and Brown was thankful he was far enough away he wouldn’t be forced to hear the screams.
Before he could swing the glass from one end of the flotilla to the other, he heard the orders to fire once again. His men were well trained, quick…and accurate.
Once more, he grimaced as the guns exploded. But again, quickly he pulled the spyglass to his eyes and watched the results. The accuracy was improving as another pair of flatboats felt the sting of the deadly grape. The other gunboat, too, was missing one of its two masts now; one of its sails was trailing behind, partly submerged.
Brown blinked hard and readjusted his hold on the glass. The arrangement of the boats was becoming disorganized, chaotic, as the militiamen realized their predicament and began to panic. Those at the oars of the hapless flatboats were desperately making the attempt to get home, looking for any way out.
Brown quickly collapsed the glass and slid it into his coat pocket. He then cupped both hands around his mouth and in the direction of McGuire yelled, “Cease firing! All guns cease firing immediately!” His head was pounding from the gunfire and his mouth was dry.
The guns stopped.
Retrieving and extending the spyglass, he scanned the enemy force. Disheveled and beaten, many had already reached the Prescott shoreline. Several were still pushing in that direction. A few of the flatboats, along with both gunboats, simply remained where they were, listless, dead in the water. They rose and fell with the choppy river like driftwood. Brown could detect no movement, no life. Perhaps their occupants had jumped free and returned in another boat. Perhaps there were no survivors.
Moving the glass upward, he looked at the Canadian shoreline, at the returning boats, the civilians that had lined the shore to watch the drama. Wounded were being carried from the boats, officers rushing about, probably trying to determine why the flatboats had returned. Well, Brown thought, it was a brash, badly organized plan from the start, and with both gunboats disabled, the troop carriers were entirely defenseless. Certainly they could see that.
“I don’t suppose they’ll try that again, sir.” It was McGuire, hands on hips, glancing at the far shore.
“Not likely.” Brown collapsed the spyglass and shook his head. “Of course, that was just Canadian militia, not British regulars. If the British sail a few heavily armed warships down this way, pound us a while, then try sending some troops over under the protection of those warships, we might have a problem.”
“I can see that we would, Sir.”
“We need to strengthen Sackett’s to keep that from happening, cut the line from Montreal and Quebec so that Upper Canada withers. But most of all, I think, we need to take Montreal and Quebec. Take them and hold them.”
“How long would that take? We might be able to cross the St. Lawrence during the winter, move across the ice. It is possible.”
“It would be up to the army to make such a move. It would take a lot of men, a supply chain of immense length…and a lot of luck. And it would take the approval of Washington and those a sight superior to us to make it a reality.” Brown smiled. “You and I, Colonel, can talk one another’s ears off about it, but it will not happen unless Eustis, Dearborn, or Madison says it will.”
McGuire grinned and punched the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It is indeed interesting how those of us out here doing the fighting have the least to say about such matters. Don’t you think, Sir?”
Brown laughed, said, “I certainly agree. But I think this war will change that.”
“How’s that, Sir?”
“Well, Mr. McGuire, I don’t believe there is anyone in Washington who knows how to plan a fight, or who can advise Mr. Madison and his cabinet on such things. Of course, there are men like Dearborn and Wilkinson, but they’re older than that damned spittle you’re chewing! The government is going to want the advisement of those of us out in the field—younger, more capable men—and that is when things are going to change.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself, sir. I hope you’re right.”
“I do too, Mr. McGuire. I do too.”
Share
Save
