A Naval Incident at Horta

It was noon and the brigantine standing in to the neutral Portuguese Port of Horta on 26 September 1814 was more than just an unusually pretty vessel.

She did indeed give any local observer with an eye to vessels of that era, a delightful, even sleek appearance. She had a long, dark hull and two tall raked masts, seemingly overbalanced by immense square-rigged, bright white sails and an equally large fore and aft mainsail.

However, what would have attracted attention to the brigantine on this day in this port was the fact she flew a large American flag.

The Port of Horta was a way-station for vessels traversing the Atlantic from Europe to the Americas. As such, in normal times, the local population was accustomed to seeing such vessels coming and going in the port. Now, Great Britain and the United States were at war and vessels entering the port other than British were a rarity.

The whole operation from the brigantine’s approach and then her anchoring in the harbor, the last, while simultaneously dropping her gig on her starboard side as her anchor let go from the bow, was done prettily, as well. Even without seeing the broad American flag, the brisk manner of her doing these anchoring actions revealed her to be of Yankee origin.

Then too, even the most inexperienced observers could tell by looking at her that the vessel was made for speed.

They would be right in this, for the vessel was built for the sole and very deadly purpose of raiding British commerce and, as part of this effort, avoiding encounters with British warships. To do either of these actions, she had to be fast and, without a doubt, as hinted by her appearance, fast she was.

The vessel arriving in the neutral Port of Horta that September day was an American privateer operating under a letter of marque signed by the President of the United States, James Madison.

The vessel had had a quick passage to the Azores, departing New York in the late evening of 9 September seventeen days earlier. She had passed Sandy Hook in the extreme dark, coming close, as she did so, to two warships of the blockading British fleet that were lying outside.

Despite the poor weather conditions and extremely poor visibility (that night having been chosen for her departure for exactly these conditions), the two large British warships, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line and a somewhat smaller razee, spotted the brigantine and the two carried on a chase that lasted through the long night and morning till, with a fresh favoring wind, the privateer left the two warships far behind.

The rest of the cruise could be considered uneventful except for one day’s long futile chase that ended with no prize and the privateer low on water and on another day, a brief exchange of gunfire with a British brig that the brigantine readily outsailed.

It was her low water that resulted from her chase that caused the privateer to enter the Port of Horta and so she lay anchored in the bright, blue waters of the bay with a large flag identifying her as an American vessel and, while not quite as prominent, but still quite obvious to the attentive observer ashore, she had around her stern in raised, large gold letters the words:

General Armstrong, New York

As soon as the brigantine anchored, her commander, Captain Samuel Chester Reid, boarded his gig and had his coxswain point the small boat across the harbor to the long stone mole jutting out on the south side of an old Portuguese fort.

It was a clear, beautifully calm day and the gig’s crew pulling against a strong tidal current, soon closed the distance between the vessel and the shore and beached the gig between the mole and fort. Telling the men to wait, Reid headed to the long line of two-story whitewashed buildings at the land end of the mole where a Portuguese flag identified one of the buildings as being the Harbormaster’s office.

Once inside the office, the Harbormaster stood up and greeted Reid. The room was large and the open windows exposed a broad view of the bay. Politely accepting the vessel’s papers, the Harbormaster motioned Reid to sit.

As Reid sat down in the stiff chair across from the port officer’s broad desk, he felt an air of tenseness. The Harbormaster, occasionally asking a few questions in heavily accented English, began a long and intense examination of the General Armstrong’s papers.

Minutes passed and, in the deep quiet of the room, Reid came slowly to realize from the stillness, that there was more involved in coming into this particular port and sitting here than just identifying himself and his vessel.

While it was true that Horta was a neutral port, he had thought that there might be some difficulties. The Portuguese were trying to maintain their neutrality despite the fact that the port was often used by British war vessels operating in this area of the Atlantic. And here, complicating the port’s neutrality was a heavily-armed American privateer.

He sat, wet his lips, and waited.

As the Harbormaster continued his seemingly endless shuffling of the vessel’s papers, Reid turned and looked out the large window. The island of Pico, another of the islands in the Azore group, stood just four miles away. Nearby, sitting in the calm waters of the bay, lay the pride of his life, the General Armstrong. A small breeze brought the tangy smell of salt water into the room.

There was a crunching noise in the gravel outside indicating that a carriage had pulled up. The Harbormaster stopped his shuffling of the vessel’s papers and, looking toward the door, smiled. The office door opened and the two were joined by a pleasant-faced gentleman who giving a warm greeting to the Harbormaster, turned to Reid, shook his hand and formally identified himself as the American Consul for the Azores, John Bass Dabney.

Dabney was a soft spoken gentleman in his late forties who, as he talked, displayed the gentle mannerisms of the old school. His appearance in the Harbormaster’s office had an air of long standing familiarity and, sitting at ease in an obviously accustomed place in a chair beside the Harbormaster, he spoke with him in soft familiar tones.

Finally, he turned to Reid and, with the Harbormaster smiling near him, told Reid in a quiet voice that things had been arranged for his vessel to stay in port, at least temporarily. With this, the Harbormaster stood up, returned to Reid the General Armstrong’s papers, bowed goodbye and Reid and Dabney left the Port office together.

Once outside, in the bright sun, Dabney was the very air of geniality. He invited Reid to join him in his carriage and to come up to the American Consulate and have a light lunch. After dining on monotonous ship’s fare for two weeks, Reid gladly agreed.

The carriage moved along the cobbled street in front of the two- and three-storied white washed buildings bordering the waters of the bay; Dabney nodded to people, who, in turn, saluted him back. It was obvious that Dabney was a fixture in the town and, just as obvious by the actions of the locals that they passed, that he was well liked.

As they moved along the portside avenue, Dabney told Reid of his coming to the island at the turn of the century and falling in love with the island and its people. He had started a small import/export business mostly of wine. Once established he had petitioned and won his present position as the United States Consul.

“You will like the wine, Captain Reid. I will give you a sample at lunch and if it pleases you, I will have a case sent to your vessel to take with you when you leave. The wine comes from Pico, the island you see across the channel. Unfortunately, for my purposes, Pico does not have a large harbor, so I have established my offices and do my business here in Horta.”

Dabney went on to say that he had applied for the position as American Consul to help ease the official side of his business and, since his appointment by Thomas Jefferson in 1807, he had acted in that capacity. Until the present war, the synergetic melding of the business and the consulate had proven to work very well.

But there was, unfortunately, the present war and Dabney was very familiar with the difficulties the Portuguese were having in maintaining their neutrality. He had, he said, managed so far to get around many of the seemingly unsolvable problems that had evolved.

The ride along the waterfront promenade was not too long and rather relaxing. Soon they turned up one of the narrow, unbelievably steep cobbled streets to what at its very high end was Bagatelle, a beautiful house with large gardens that served as both Dabney’s home and the offices of the American consulate.

Bagatelle had been built by Dabney three years earlier and was justly his pride and joy. Sitting with some ices on a broad bougainvillea-shaded veranda, among 3 acres of gardens, Reid allowed himself to relax. The view of Pico’s volcano was even grander from their higher elevation than it was at sea level. Below them, the General Armstrong sat, a child’s toy floating peacefully as if in a broad calm lake.

As they sat, Dabney explained to Reid in more detail the island’s delicate and rather complex diplomatic situation.

“American ships need special permission to stay in neutral port such as Horta; especially an obviously heavily armed privateer such as yours. There are all sorts of rather complex rules. I’m sure you noticed the difficulty the Harbormaster was having when you dropped in seemingly out of the blue. Luckily, you were reported to me almost as soon as you dropped anchor.

“The difficulty rises from the fact that the British have developed a habit of using Horta as a rest and refurbishing station. In fact, I should tell you, that two British brigs, Thais and Calypso patrol this part of the Atlantic looking for privateers such as your ship. What is worse, as far as you are concerned, is that these two vessels make a habit of using Horta as a logistical base for their several month-long patrols.”

Dabney laughed when he saw the sudden change of expression on Reid’s face.

“Please, excuse me. I didn’t mean to scare you. I really wouldn’t worry about them coming in while you are here. The last time Thais and Calypso were in port was when the British - French war ended this spring. The vessel’s officers and men and the townspeople celebrated with a fiesta that lasted a week. I doubt if we will see those vessels again till mid-October.

“There was a British frigate, HMS Rota, that stopped for about a week awhile back. The ship’s officers put on several plays. The playbill from one of them, ‘The Tragedy of Barberossa,’ I think is around here somewhere. Rota left to form part of a British squadron sweeping the area north of here for privateers. When they left, they seem to think they would be gone for some time.

“The point I am trying to make, Captain Reid, is that, although the island depends on supplying vessels such as yours with needed supplies, the plain fact is that few American ships come here.

“So this leaves the British warships as their biggest customers. When Thais and Calypso left, they paid a bill for their supplies and provisions of some 2,700 pounds sterling. That’s quite a bit of money.

“Look at it, sir, from the Portuguese viewpoint. Since the United States and Great Britain are the only ones still at war here in the Atlantic and the local economy, already in dire straits, depends on any country’s vessels stopping by for supplies, they have a very touchy problem. A very touchy problem.”

Dabney gestured and a servant came from the house with a new serving of iced sherbet.

“They have tried to solve that problem by declaring Horta to be a neutral port,” he continued, “So far it has worked. In fact, with the help of the Portuguese Governor, Elias Jose Ribeiro, the British Vice Consul, Mr. Thomas Parkin, we have reached an amiable working agreement that so far has made it work very well.”

Reid leaned forward.

“All I want, Mr. Dabney, is water. We need nothing else.”

“We chased a schooner, on the 11^th. We caught up with her after a nine-hour chase and when we boarded her we found she was a private armed American just 6 days from Philadelphia.”

Reid paused, slightly embarrassed.

“It was a shame; we had scared the vessel’s people so badly they had thrown over all her guns and, as it turned out, their water as well. It was an understandable mistake. We shared some of our water before we left them; it seemed the right thing to do. So, now we are the ones that need water. Hence our stop here in Horta.

“Once we receive the water we need, I assure you, sir, we will be happy to leave. Especially from what you have just now told me about those British warships. ”

Dabney nodded,

“Good, I thought you would not need to be staying long and have already sent a request to the Portuguese Governor asking him to give you permission to be in port for a stay of twenty-four hours.

“If he grants my request, Captain Reid, and I am sure that he will, you must leave by noon tomorrow. I have already arranged that you get all the water and whatever else you need before you sail. Yours will be a short stay, but I hope it will be a pleasant one.”

They sat at the table for a little longer looking out over the peaceful bay, the surrounding hills and Pico’s distant volcano.

Reid suddenly sat up.

“Those British warships, you say they’re brigs?”

“Why, yes they are.”

“Well, I should say that the day after our meeting with the schooner, we had a brush with a British brig. It really wasn’t much. She had the weather gauge on us, but we were too fast and we left her fairly easy in our wake.”

Reid paused for a long moment, lost in thought.

“What we thought strange at the time, Mr. Dabney, was that they fired at us even though we were just out of range. It seemed an absurd thing to do and we all had a good laugh about it.

“Then as a bit of a lark, we decided to return the compliment with a large gun we have aft. It’s a 42-pounder that the men have nicknamed “Long Tom.” It’s a perfect intimidator for stopping any arguments with a prize. The men love it. So we fired it. Although we were out of range of the brig, we felt the big splash the gun makes when the big ball hits the water would entertain them.”

He paused again, collecting his thoughts, going over again in his mind the brief affair and where he was now.

“I’m thinking that their firing may not have been just to impress us, sir, it may have also been to call attention to our being where we were to another vessel just over the horizon. The thing I am trying to say is that we didn’t see anyone but the one brig, so we thought nothing of it at the time. But there may well have been another British brig.

“From what you tell me, our firing our big gun may have been a mistake. We exposed our having such a large gun when we didn’t have to, to someone we did not really wish to know that we had.”

Reid stopped for a second, plainly vexed.

“And now they know.”

Dabney pursed his lips and nodded in agreement.

“It may well have been either the Thais or Calypso. They are brigs after all and neither one of them is overly fast. Both have been on station so long that they are past due for a dock work up.

“Now that you have brought that up, maybe it is good that you won’t be staying here any longer than tomorrow. They may well figure you will be heading here to water and are hurrying here hoping to blockade you in port.”

Dabney paused, calculating in his head.

“You say you saw the brig a few days ago?”

“Earlier than that, actually on the 12^th. But at the time, we were a goodly ways west of here. It may take them awhile. After all, we just got here.”

“Good. Still we must be careful. Given the differences in speed between you and them, and their perhaps thinking you may put in to Horta, they may well be standing in early the day after tomorrow looking for you.

“Luckily, you’ll be long gone by then. It would, I assure you, create a very touchy situation for everyone. I’m not sure, that if either of the brigs was to show, that Governor Ribeiro would not order you to leave the port immediately to maintain Horta’s neutrality.”

Reid looked at what was left of his iced sherbet. It had melted and with it the relaxed feeling he had been enjoying just a few moments earlier.

The cool taste of the ice and the grand view of Pico were gone. But what was not gone, and was the more important to him, was his view of the vessel sitting below him in the quiet waters of the harbor. The possibility of being blockaded in Horta was not a pleasant prospect. But the other possibility; that of being forced to leave Horta and go out to fight one or maybe two British warships with their highly-trained crews and superior firepower was even less appealing.

There was a small disturbance in the house and a young man came out on the veranda and bending low, spoke quietly to Dabney.

Dabney smiled and stood up

“Captain Reid, this is my son Charles. He has just returned from seeing the Governor and he tells me that everything has been approved by the Portuguese authorities for your stay till noon tomorrow.”

“Now, since you have been kind enough to invite me to come aboard the General Armstrong this evening, let me go about arranging your water, and I will join you for an early evening repast at about five.”

He motioned to a servant.

“I will have the carriage take you back to the port and your gig. It will stay there, in case you need anything. Send it back with those needs and I will see that they are taken care of. Have a good day, sir, and I will see you on your vessel at five”

Dabney and his son exchanged bows with Reid and Reid went out to the waiting carriage.

As the carriage carried him down the absurdly steep cobbled road leading to the harbor, Reid mulled over the conversation he had just had.

He was not pleased with the way things were going.

Horta, despite its neutrality, now seemed too dangerous a harbor to stay in any longer than he had to.

What neither Reid nor Dabney knew was that a squadron of British warships was but a few hours outside the harbor of Horta, just a short distance to the north of the headland of the bay, Point Espalamca.

These were HMS Plantagenet, a ship-of-the-line with 74 guns, the frigate, HMS Rota (the same ship that Dabney had mentioned to Reid during their lunch), with 38 guns, and the brig, HMS Carnation with 18 guns.

These three ships were a part of Admiral William Brown’s West Indies Command and, according to some reports, were returning to Nigel Bay, Jamaica to rejoin Admiral Brown’s command for a special reason.

There are differing reports about that reason and for why the squadron was where it was at this particular time. One fairly reliable report states that they were on an extended cruise sweeping the seas to the north and west for American privateers.

Several other reports state that they were hurrying to return to their duty station, Jamaica, as they were scheduled to become part of a large British fleet being assembled in Jamaica under the command of Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, commander of the North American Station. These same reports stress that the squadron was an integral part of the fleet’s assembly and objectives

Most importantly, these several accounts stress that the objective of the assemblage was an invasion of the southern United States starting with the capture of New Orleans and that the squadron of three warships were sorely needed for the success of that invasion.

These reports also stress that Post-Captain Robert Lloyd, the Commodore in command of the three warships, was under orders to proceed at all haste to Jamaica and that his orders were very specific and that the urgency of his mission was very much implicit in these orders.

If these reports were true, all of this would change in the next twelve hours.

It is the War of 1812. A British Naval squadron stops at Horta, one of the Portuguese islands in the Mid-Atlantic Azores. In the Bay of Horta, they find anchored a well-armed American privateer, The General Armstrong. Despite the Portuguese port being neutral, the British commodore orders one of the brig in his squadron to go in and capture the privateer.

What happens next is a series of fierce actions that were best described by an observer onshore “as if the commodore stuck his hand in a jar of hornets and refused to remove it.” In three increasingly vicious actions, the British suffer almost three hundred killed and wounded to the American privateer’s nine.

At this period in the war of 1812, America needs a lift in morale and the Horta naval incident is toasted in speech and song throughout the United States. The British Commodore however clamps a tight censorship on the actions and, with the soon to be Battle of New Orleans, the action is quickly forgotten.

But written here in detail is the story of what did happen.