There has long been an especially strong bond between two branches of the U. S. military. The Navy-Marine Corps team has fought together throughout the nation’s history. One of the most spectacular examples of that teamwork is the early 19th century cruise of the frigate Essex and three extraordinary officers of her crew: Captain David Porter and Midshipman Glasgow Farragut of the Navy and Lieutenant John Gamble of the Marine Corps.
The Essex's commanding officer, 32-year-old Captain David Porter, was a slightly built but daring naval officer who loved the challenge of combat on the high seas. He was a formidable adversary. Whether on land or at sea. Captain Porter was tempestuous in the pursuit of any prize. In fact, he won his bride’s hand with a sense of determination that overwhelmed her family’s initial misgivings.
Children held Porter in awe because of his military demeanor and impressive uniform. One such youngster was James Glasgow Farragut. In 1808, the seven-year-old Farragut was left in Porter’s care upon the death of the boy’s mother. The young naval officer offered to care for Glasgow out of gratitude for the close friendship bestowed upon Porter’s father prior to his death. Somewhat leery of “parenthood,” but more conscious of duty, Captain Porter took Glasgow as his ward. A short time later, he introduced Glasgow to Secretary of the Navy Paul Hamilton- The Secretary was taken with the lad and secured for him a midshipman’s appointment dated 17 December 1810. In honor of the occasion, Farragut asked to be given the name of his guardian and be called David. Porter acknowledged the request, but his foster son, yet to earn the “rites of passage,” was still to be known as “young Glasgow' to his shipmates.
The relationship between the two was cemented on board the Essex during the War of 1812. Porter captured the first British prize in the war, the 20-gun HMS Alert- Although Farragut was only 11 years old, he was on board as a midshipman and was instrumental in thwarting a mutiny by prisoners from the Alert. He thus proved himself to his mentor and earned an approving nod from his seasoned shipmates. When Porter prepared the Essex for her second combat cruise, he included Farragut as one of several midshipmen. Also on board was 21-year-old Lieutenant John Marshall Gamble, who commanded the ship’s detachment of 31 Marines.
On 27 October 1812, the Essex departed Delaware Buy with orders to join the frigate Constitution and attack British shipping in the South Atlantic. The Constitution, however, was homeward bound for repairs, so Porter headed south with plans to interrupt the enemy’s whaling trade- After a long, stormy passage, the Essex finally entered the welcome calm of the Pacific Ocean on 5 March 1813. Porter provisioned his ship at Valparaiso, Chile, and ventured into what had been, up to then, safe waters for British whalers. As the U. S. frigate proceeded up the South American coast. Captain Porter soon discovered that his Perilous venture around Cape Horn would pay handsome dividends.
On 29 May, Porter sighted and captured a small fleet of British whalers, including the ten-gun privateer Greenwich. But the unexpected windfall posed a problem; he Was short of naval officers to man his captured vessels. After momentarily pondering the fact that Lieutenant Gamble “was only a marine,” Porter dispatched the lieutenant “with much confidence in the discretion of this gentleman.” Gamble thus became the only U. S. Marine to command an American man-of-war on the high seas.
On 5 July 1813, Captain Porter again found himself with too many captured vessels and too few officers to take command. On this day, Midshipman Farragut’s 12th Birthday, Porter gave his budding ward an unprecedented opportunity; he would take a party of experienced sailors and command the Alexander Barclay, a recaptured American whaler. When Midshipman Farragut and six seamen Boarded the whaling ship, her captain, Gideon Randall, was informed that he would relinquish command to the young midshipman and assist as navigator. His mate would be the ship’s handler.
As might be expected, Randall threatened to navigate the vessel to the “far corners of the globe” before he would take orders from a “dammed nutshell,” and stormed to his cabin to fetch his pistols. Farragut met this first challenge to his authority with fiery resolve. He sharply barked out orders to fill the sails. The boatswain’s mate, somewhat startled, yelled “Aye, aye, sir!” Farragut then sent a messenger to the captain’s cabin to inform the dethroned skipper that if he appeared on the deck with a weapon of any kind, he would be thrown overboard. The messenger tactfully advised Randall to stay put or come up empty-handed. Randall placed discretion ahead of valor and wisely followed the messenger’s counsel. The original crew of the Alexander Barclay, not especially fond of their former skipper, smiled at the courage of this young officer. Farragut had just passed through one of the many portals to manhood. After delivering the recaptured ship to Valparaiso for safekeeping, he rejoined the Essex as a midshipman.
On 14 July, Porter, accompanied by the Greenwich and his small fleet of prizes, sighted sails through the afternoon haze. The Seringapatam, a 14-gun British raider, bore down on the Greenwich. Porter, with only the slightest apprehension, signalled Gamble to engage while he prepared to meet another sail to his leeward. Porter watched through his spyglass as the Greenwich with “only a marine” as the skipper, took on the Seringapatam. Gamble expertly maneuvered his outgunned vessel to repeatedly rake the decks of the British raider. Soon her captain, a notorious privateer, was forced to strike his colors. The relieved Captain Porter assisted Gamble in hauling in his prize, then directed his spyglass where he could focus attention on his next task.
Porter’s slogan, “Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights,” was emblazoned on a flag which flew from his ship’s foremast. It became a challenge that most British captains chose to avoid. The Essex's conquests continued to mount, however, and soon Porter captured more ships than he could safely control. (His total victories for the expedition numbered 40.) He reorganized his fleet and assigned Lieutenant Gamble a squadron: the Andrew Hammond, Seringapatam, New Zealander, and the Greenwich, now his flagship. Needing to provision and repair some of his ships, Porter took up a course of due west toward Nukahiva, one of the Marquesas Islands.
Arriving at Madison Island (the name Porter used for Nukahiva) in December 1813, Porter proceeded to caulk and fumigate his fleet. The need for attention was apparent when the crew of the Essex removed the carcasses of 1,500 rats. Porter considered Madison Island an excellent location for a permanent American anchorage and attempted to establish good relations with the many native tribes. He was successful with the exception of one band, referred to as the Typees, which persisted in stirring up unrest among the other tribes. In an attempt to pacify the militant Typees, Porter, with a small force of Marines and sailors, rowed longboats to their territorial valley, and made an amphibious landing into a hornets’ nest of enraged belligerents. As the party progressed inland, it was forced to endure repeated volleys of rocks, spears, and arrows. But Porter, in front of his men as always, held off the onslaught until Lieutenant Gamble brought up sufficient ammunition and reinforcements to repel the attackers. For the first time, U. S. Marines and sailors shed blood in battle on a South Pacific Island, an ominous beginning for a legacy that would extend into the next century.
After Porter restored a tenuous peace, he established an armed garrison, naming it Fort Madison. He then designated the fort and its adjoining harbor a temporary U. S. naval station and proclaimed Nukahiva as annexed by the United States of America, an act considered by one of his biographers, David Long, as “one of the most extraordinary acts of his extraordinary life.” Porter was anxious to get back to his operations on the South American Coast, so he directed his young Marine lieutenant to take 23 volunteers and six prisoners of war and garrison the fort until he returned in the spring. If Porter did not return in five months. Gamble was free to abandon Fort Madison and proceed to Valparaiso. Before his departure, Porter proudly placed the Marines on display as a warning to the British prisoners as well as the temporarily cooperative natives. The Marines’ drill by fife and drum and their expert marksmanship impressed the spectators, but did not deter them from eventually challenging the young lieutenant’s authority.
Mariners, then as now, were unable to ignore the temptations waiting for them ashore. Desertion to the arms of native women thinned the ranks of the already undermanned garrison and Gamble soon had far more conspiring natives and detainees than reliable seamen. The natives began to press their advantage and only days after Porter’s departure, Gamble was confronted with an uprising. He rallied his band of seamen, prisoners, and foreign whalers and, through a combination of determination and bluffing, quelled the native insurrection without bloodshed. Once again, though it was ever so fragile, peace was restored to the Marquesas.
Captain Porter failed to return by May 1814, so in accordance with his last order. Gamble prepared to abandon the naval station. While overseeing repair work on his ships, he was interrupted by a mutinous gang of discontented American seamen. They took over the Seringapatam and put to sea. While in his cabin on board the ship. Gamble took a pistol ball in his left heel; he was shot by a trigger-happy guard. Murder was not the aim of the mutineers, however. During the night, the crippled Gamble, two midshipmen, and two loyal seamen were given muskets, powder, and shot and set adrift in a leaky skiff-
Perseverance was becoming a habit with Gamble. The five determined Americans defied the odds and made their way back to the Marquesas anchorage—simultaneously bailing, rowing, and navigating throughout the night- When Gamble climbed aboard the Greenwich, he recognized his position as precarious at best. He sent a party ashore to recover material taken from his ships by the mutineers. The islanders recognized Gamble’s vulnerability, and the Marine officer had a second insurrection on his hands. This time the insurrection turned into a bloodbath for both sides. From on board ship. Gamble could see that his shore party was about to be overpowered by scores of club- and spear-wielding natives. Suffering from fever and the pain of his wound, he hobbled from cannon to cannon, firing into the frenzied native horde while yelling at his emaciated crewmen to shoot their muskets at will. The only survivors of the shore party. Seaman Worth and badly wounded Marine Private Codington, fought off the islanders back-to-back until they could plunge into the surf and swim for a longboat launched for their rescue. The handful of Americans frantically aimed every available weapon toward the pursuing natives, and successfully covered the rescue of their two shipmates. Repulsed by the hail of ball and shot, the natives rushed back into the fort where they plundered the garrison and the bodies of the dead Americans.
With only seven loyal crewmen, five of whom were seriously wounded or weakened by disease. Gamble faced a hostile native population and possible return of the mutineers or British raiders. It was time for a decision and none of the alternatives was very appealing. Gamble opted to take his chances at sea. He had already inspected the Greenwich and found her structurally deteriorated beyond repair. As a result, he had reluctantly set her afire and boarded the only remaining ship, the more seaworthy Andrew Hammond. Without maps, compass, or spyglass, all confiscated by deserters and mutineers, he allowed the trade winds to take him toward the Sandwich Islands (now Hawaii) rather than attempt to reach the more distant and windward South American coast. After provisioning and recuperating in the Sandwich Islands, Gamble intended to push on for Valparaiso. He was relentless in his effort to rejoin Captain Porter.
Gamble reached his destination in 17 days, but there he ran into the British sloop-of-war Cherub. Unable to return fire or to make a successful escape, the ill-starred Marine was forced to surrender the Andrew Hammond. His one- year career as a ship’s captain thus came to a rather humble end. Gamble and his crew were imprisoned and after peace was declared, were eventually released in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. In spite of repeated delays, Lieutenant Gamble persevered and made his way back to the United States in August 1815. His spirits were lifted when he discovered that a year earlier the news of his accomplishments had been received at the Navy Department and he had been rewarded in absentia with a promotion to Captain of Marines.
After Porter left the detachment at Fort Madison, he sailed the Essex toward her destiny. Two British men-of- war, the sloop Cherub and the frigate Phoebe, had been hunting Porter along the South American coast, but failed to find the Essex before she arrived at Valparaiso. Porter sized up the two British ships as they entered the neutral harbor for provisions. Later, in face-to-face meetings, he measured their captains as well. The ships were moored a stone’s throw from one another, and the crews frequently exchanged insults and challenges for combat. As Porter watched the two warships leave the harbor a few days later, he knew that they would be lurking off the Chilean coast. He was confident, however, that he could outshoot his adversaries, especially if he could engage them at short range or one at a time. The range would be crucial, since the Essex was armed primarily with carronades, stubby-barrelled cannons that packed a tremendous punch but would not carry far. Porter had repeatedly asked the Navy Department to replace many of them with long guns, but— through a false sense of economy—the department had denied his requests.
On more than one occasion. Porter tried unsuccessfully to entice the Phoebe into a duel. After several weeks, he elected to use a threatening gale for an escape, or to out- maneuver his pursuers if forced into a fight. But as the Essex was leaving the mouth of the harbor, a sudden squall snapped her main topmast, sending several seamen to their deaths and seriously affecting the ship’s speed and ability to hold course. Porter took the dangerously crippled frigate into a nearby cove. The shallow lagoon offered the temporary sanctuary of neutral waters, or so he thought, and Porter set out quickly to make repairs.
The two British captains, James Hillyar and Thomas J. Tucker, both of whom had previously declined individually to accept Porter’s challenge, now saw an excellent opportunity to team up and rid the seas of the menacing American frigate. Much to the contempt of the sporting Porter, both ships closed in for the kill, ignoring the neutrality of the Chilean waters. Porter prepared for combat, hoisting his battle flags aft while brazenly displaying the familiar “Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights” from his foremast. Remaining out of range of the Essex's 40 short- range carronades and out of line of her six long guns, the two British captains took the maimed frigate under thunderous fire. Range, not weight of metal, was critical in the battle.
Although Porter’s outgunned and crippled ship was at a great disadvantage, he managed to severely damage his attackers, especially the Phoebe, with several well-aimed volleys. The murderous fire of the Phoebe and Cherub. however, eventually took its toll as the two ships positioned themselves on the bow and stern of the beleaguered Essex and repeatedly raked her fore and aft. Blood, limbs, brains, and sinew covered the splintered decks. Farragut. although his sleeves and coattails were torn away by fragments of wood and cannon shot, miraculously suffered only minor wounds. He moved from cannon to cannon, halyard to halyard, relieving wounded sailors. In this battle for survival, Porter demanded absolute effort from his ward, regardless of his youth and inexperience. As one gunner deserted his cannon in panic. Captain Porter yelled above the din at the young midshipman to “Go do your duty, sir!” Farragut grabbed a pistol and chased after the terrified gunner, but was unable to catch him before he leaped overboard. Later, as Farragut was on his way to fetch primers for the cannon, he was upended by the flying body of a sailor who had taken an 18-pound shot squarely in the face. Crawling from under his decapitated shipmate, Farragut looked up at the bridge to see Porter shouting, “Are you wounded?”
The bloodied midshipman looked himself over and responded, “I don’t believe so, sir.”
Porter, hands on his hips, then yelled back, “Well, then where are the primers?”
Marine sharpshooters found their muskets useless against the far-off British ships and so assisted the sailors by manning the guns, fighting fires, carrying powder and shot, and tending the wounded. The perfidious Chilean winds repeatedly betrayed the struggling Essex and teams of Marines and sailors heaved line and anchor to position the ship so as to align the six long-range cannon on the enemy. Hand-to-hand and back-to-back, they fought to save their ship.
Captain Porter, covered with his own blood and that of his crew, declared that he was “determined to defend the ship to the last extremity, and to die in preference to a shameful surrender.” Inspired by their skipper’s declaration of resolve, the exhausted sailors and marines offered encouragement. Surgeons were forced to amputate limbs on the main deck as the lower decks were overflowing with the wounded and dead. When an officer was offered medical attention for a shattered leg, he told the doctor to see to the seamen first, “One man’s life is good as the other’s. See that they get their fair turn.” The officer bled to death before sunset.
With 159 men (60% of his crew) dead, mortally wounded, or blown overboard, only a few guns able to fire and his sinking frigate in splinters and flames. Captain Porter sadly struck his colors. The vengeful Captain Hillyar of the heavily damaged Phoebe, however, continued to fire for another ten minutes and caused several more fatalities. Porter, thinking that Hillyar was giving no quarter, was about to raise his colors and fight to the last man when the firing suddenly stopped. Mercifully, two hours and 34 minutes after the first shot was fired, what proved to be the longest and bloodiest battle of the war (for the Americans) was over. The defiant Essex had finally bowed to her enemy.
There is considerable controversy whether Porter acted wisely at Valparaiso before the battle took place. His critics claim that he should have ignored chivalry and neutrality and destroyed the two British ships with his powerful carronades in Valparaiso harbor when he had the chance. Others believe that he should have concentrated on merchant vessels and avoided any contact with enemy men-of- war. Such criticism ignores Porter’s sense of honor and his reluctance to dodge an enemy’s challenge, let alone all of the other professional implications of such action. Nevertheless, there is no question regarding his skill and courage in combat. If not for incredibly bad luck, he might have been victorious. President Madison summed up Porter’s true character when he stated, “humanity tore down the colors which valor had nailed to the mast.” Porter was not going to give up his ship without a fight, and rightly so, but he knew when his valiant crew had given everything they had for their ship and their country.
After internment as prisoners of war, Porter, Farragut, and the surviving members of the Essex crew were paroled back to the United States. They arrived in New York on 7 July 1814, two days after Farragut’s 13th birthday. Soon after his return, the seasoned midshipman again requested, and was officially granted, the first name of his revered guardian. Captain David Porter. Henceforth, America’s greatest naval hero was known as David Glasgow Farragut. There was no longer a question of earning the “rites of passage.” The courage of the young midshipman was soon to be legend in the naval service.
Farragut, of course, became one of the greatest naval heroes in history. Records indicate that he served on the rolls of the U. S. Navy from the time he was a “boy seaman” in the spring of 1810 (when he was eight and a half years old), through the Civil War, during which he was appointed the nation’s first admiral. David Glasgow Farragut died 14 August 1870 in Portsmouth, Virginia.
Captain Porter continued to serve a distinguished but blunted naval career. With 25 years’ service he was forced to leave the Navy. The proud American patriot was unable to let stand an insult from a Spanish officer who jailed and ridiculed one of the captains in his squadron while he was searching for pirates and contraband on the Spanish Island of Puerto Rico. Porter considered this an insult, not only to a naval officer, but also to the American flag. He responded with a punitive raid on Fajardo, Puerto Rico (spiking a few cannon, but avoiding injury to any Spanish citizens), an act praised by the public and his peers, but condemned by a powerful few. Although a court-martial recorded that Porter’s action was to “maintain the honor and advance the interest of the nation and the service,” he was severely reprimanded and given six months’ suspension. Porter considered his naval career dishonored and after dutifully serving his suspension, resigned his commission. Following a brief period of self-exile as an admiral with the Mexican Navy, he answered a call to serve his country once again, this time out of uniform. Captain David Porter died while on diplomatic duty in Constantinople, Turkey, on 3 March 1843.
John Marshall Gamble continued to suffer from his wounds and the illnesses brought on by imprisonment without medical care. The remainder of his career certainly cannot compare to his exploits on board the Essex, but he continued to serve the Marine Corps with distinction, ultimately reaching the rank of brevet lieutenant colonel. Eventually perseverance became a physical impossibility and he succumbed to complications from his service-related ailments. Gamble died in Brooklyn, New York, on 11 September 1836 at the age of 46.
On 30 June 1834, Congress passed the “Act for the Better Organization of the Marine Corps,” which prohibited Marine officers from thereafter commanding any navy yard or vessel. That statute was part of a compromise when Congress placed the Corps under the Navy Department. The Act sealed for posterity the unique accomplishments of Lieutenant John Marshall Gamble. As Captain Porter wrote the Secretary of Navy following Gamble’s return from British imprisonment: “No Marine officer in the service ever had such strong claims as Captain Gamble, and none have been placed in such conspicuous and critical situations, arid none could have extricated themselves from them more to their honor.”
And what of the gallant Essex? Certainly she was also part of the history that kindled the Navy-Marine Corps spirit. Unfortunately, her fate was undeserved for a ship with such a superior record as a warrior of the sea. After her defeat at Valparaiso, Essex was put aground by the British to prevent her from sinking. She was then repaired and sent to England. Tragically, the proud frigate was stripped of her dignity and sent to Kingston, Jamaica, to serve as a prison ship. On 3 June 1837, she was sold at public auction and unceremoniously sailed into oblivion. Her deeds, however, warrant immortality. Three other U. S. ships have borne her name, including CV-9 that earned 17 battle stars for service in World War II and the Korean War. The Navy has now determined that there will be yet another. The next Essex will be LHD-2, an amphibious assault ship. As was the first ship of the name, she will be manned by a proud combination of sailors and Marines.
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