I can't think of a more unlikely event. First, there were the astronomical odds against the Susquehanna River surviving for 325 million years - but it did, making it the second oldest river on earth, older than the five rising Appalachian Mountain ridges (above) which grew as the river sliced through them.
And what were the odds that 35 and a half million years ago - over half way back to the demise of the dinosaurs - that a mile wide chunk of the rock traveling at 70,000 miles an hour would slam into the new born Atlantic Ocean, just off shore from the mouth of that same Susquehanna River? Well those odds were about one in 182 million. But it happened.
And finally there was the rhythmic withdrawal of the Wisconsin Ice Sheet, which began it's last retreat 11,000 years ago - the end of which released enough fresh water into the now mature Atlantic to flood the lower 200 miles of the Susquehanna River valley, forming the shallow Chesapeake Bay.
And on the oppressively hot Tuesday, 16 August, 1814, this unlikely chain of unlikely events allowed 50 British warships to sail through the Chesapeake Channel, created by that ancient crater, and into America's vulnerable interior.
Commanding that fleet from aboard the 74 gun HMS Royal Oak was 56 year old Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Forrester Inglis Cochrane (above). His family had been intimately involved in America for the last half century. In 1776 his brother-in-law, John Pitcairn, had commanded the party that opened fire on the Minute Men on Lexington Green, starting the American Revolution. And coincidentally, six years later, Cochrane's older brother Charles had been killed at the battle of Yorktown, which effectively secured American independence.
And now, 33 years later, Cochrane scattered his fleet through the bay, shelling American towns, burning fishing boats. They dispatched their infantry on raids, but never stayed long on land enough to get into trouble.
Six months earlier the 48 year old Brigadier General Roger Ross (above) had been a colonel, leading his brigade in what was to be the main assault against the little village of St. Boes in southern France.
Ross captured the town on the first rush (above). But unbeknownst him, his commander, the Duke of Wellington, abruptly shifted the main effort to the other flank. So when the French counterattacked, Ross's men had no support.
While desperately fighting to hold the church in the village center, shrapnel had slashed open the left side of Ross's jaw. He dismissively refereed to it as a “hit in the chops”, but an inch lower and he would have bleed to death. Ross was driven out of the village, but Wellington won the battle. As a reward for his devotion the Duke promoted Ross and had gave him command of the 4,500 ground troops in the Chesapeake Bay expedition.
The British were not looking to reconquer America, just convince them to end the stupid war of 1812. Peace talks were already going on back in Europe. All that was needed, both Ross and Cochran felt, was to shove the Americans in the right direction. And surprisingly the best ally the Brits would have in their plan would prove to be the American Secretary of War. That doesn't seem very likely, does it?
It is hard to think of something nice to say about John Armstrong (above). His personality was once described as “obstinacy and self-conceit.” His enemies were not nearly as kind. Armstrong was disliked because he was an arrogant and smug bean counter. His hubris drove the most successful American general, William Henry Harrison, to resign. And it drove Armstrong's boss, President James Madison, to disaster.
When Maryland officials begged for help defending their coast against the British incursion into Chesapeake Bay, Armstrong snapped he could not defend, “every man’s turnip patch”. And when his President asked if it was not at least possible the British might try to capture Washington, Armstrong had snorted, “What the devil will they do here? No! No! Baltimore is the place, sir. That is of so much more consequence.”
He was right, of course. In 1814 Washington (above) was a village of about 8,000 people. It had no industry, no harbor – it wasn't even on a main road. Why bother?
Well, the British stepped ashore 15 miles northeast of Washington on Friday, 19 August , and in 100 degree heat marched on the American capital.
The plan was for two prongs to meet in Washington. The infantry would march up the Patucent River, while the Navy sailed up the Potomac to Alexandria, Virginia.
After brushing aside a scratch American force at Bladensburg on Wednesday, 24 August (above)...
They did the same with the Treasury and every other government building in town. They used the 289 foot high Capital Hill as their base, and wanted to burn the capital building (above) as well, but it was still mostly unfinished stone walls.
So they had to content themselves with piling its fittings and furniture outside and kept those fires burning all night long.
And then, on next morning, Friday, 25 August, as the British were finishing up their destructive work, the final unlikely event in our story occurred.
The heavy sweltering surface block of air oppressing Washington had become trapped beneath an advancing cold front . It was a conflict in motion, the humid air rising, cooling on contact with the invading antecedent blowing from the southwest, sending everything spinning
Eighteen year old British Ensign George Rodgers Gleig was there, and he later noted, “towards morning a violent storm of rain, accompanied with thunder and lightning, came on...The flashes of lightning vied in brilliancy with the flames which burst from the roofs of burning houses, whilst the thunder drowned for a time the noise of crumbling walls, and was only interrupted by the occasional roar of cannon, and of large depots of gunpowder, as they one by one exploded.” .
As the invaders formed up for their return to the fleet, the rear of the storm approached, The rain began to pound down even harder. And out of the lowering clouds, a finger of sheer catastrophe touched the surface. First a heavy chain bridge across the Potomac River was buckled and twisted. Then several homes along the tidal basin lost their roofs, or were reduced to kindling. Feather mattresses were sucked out of windows. Trees were torn up by their roots and left scattered. Brick chimneys were shattered and collapsed. And with a “frightening roar”, the twister climbed Capital Hill, and plowed through the center of town..
Soldiers fell flat in the streets or ran for shelter before the monster's sudden advance. Two British 150 pound brass cannon were lifted and tossed like kindling. Invaders and civilians were buried as houses collapsed atop them. One officer and his horse were lifted and slammed down into the mud. And then, just as quickly as it had come, the monster was gone. Like most tornadoes, this one had lasted less than five minutes.
One newspaper crowed afterward that the tornado killed more British than the Americans lost at Bladensburg, and described the storm as divine retribution. But that was probably wishful thinking.
It is probable that some invaders were injured. It is also certain the rain doused most of the fires still burning. But it is unlikely any of that made much difference. Most of the destruction had already been achieved before the storm arrived. But it is also clear that this abrupt assault did quench much of the exhilaration felt by British troops.
While the ashes of Washington were still smoldering, President James Madison (above) fired Secretary of War John Armstrong. Finally. The conceited fool retired from politics, retreated to his farm in Red Hook, New York and wrote history books until his death in 1843.
Meanwhile, the shaken British army moved on toward the target Secretary Armstrong had predicted all along - Baltimore. But that was where they were stopped. Their bombardment of the harbor defenses at Fort McHenry only inspired the “Star Spangled Banner”.
Worse, while scouting the land defenses of Baltimore, General Roger Ross's luck ran out. He was cut down by a sniper, and this time it killed him. Baltimore was deemed too strong, and the British retreated without a ground assault.
The navy stuffed Ross's body into a barrel of Jamaican rum, and shipped it north to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where the General was buried (above) in September of 1814.
In January of 1815 most of his little army was thrown against the defenses of New Orleans, but again they were stopped.
As hard as it may be to understand, the Duke of Wellington blamed the defeat at New Orleans and the death of General Ross at Baltimore, on Vice Admiral Cochrane. It did not help that he was later convicted of stock fraud and dismissed from the service. However, after a decade helping Peru to win her independence, and Wellington's death, he was pardon by the crown and died a full Admiral in 1832, at the age of 73.
Not that the death of Ross and the defeats at Baltimore and New Orleans really mattered, because the burning of Washington had accomplished its goal. A month before the Battle of New Orleans, the Treaty of Ghent ended this silly war.
Just a century later the United States would join the first of two world wars as a British ally, and at every White House visit since, the President and British Prime Minister (above, 1942) exchange bad jokes about that August day when the British came, bearing torches. Such an alliance must have seemed impossible in 1814.
It was, of course, not impossible, merely very unlikely. And given enough time it was actually, inevitable. Just something to think about the next time you start thinking the past was logical or the
future can be predicted with any degree of certainty.
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