Commanding Petty Despots: The American Navy in the New Republic

By Thomas Sheppard

Commanding Petty Despots: The American Navy in the New Republic tells the story of the creation of the American Navy. Rather than focus on the well-known frigate duels and fleet engagements, Thomas Sheppard emphasizes the overlooked story of the institutional formation of the Navy. Sheppard looks at civilian control of the military, and how this concept evolved in the early American republic. For naval officers obsessed with honor and reputation, being willing to put themselves in harm's way was never a problem, but they were far less enthusiastic about taking orders from a civilian Secretary of the Navy. Accustomed to giving orders and receiving absolute obedience at sea, captains were quick to engage in blatantly insubordinate behavior towards their superiors in Washington.

The civilian government did not always discourage such thinking. The new American nation needed leaders who were zealous for their honor and quick to engage in heroic acts on behalf of their nation. The most troublesome officers could also be the most effective during the Revolution and the Quasi and Barbary Wars. First Secretary of the Navy Benjamin Stoddert tolerated insubordination from "spirited" officers who secured respect for the American republic from European powers. However, by the end of the War of 1812, the culture of the Navy's officer corps had grown considerably when it came to civil-military strains. A new generation of naval officers, far more attuned to duty and subordination, had risen to prominence, and Stoddert's successors increasingly demanded recognition of civilian supremacy from the officer corps. Although the creation of the Board of Navy Commissioners in 1815 gave the officer corps a greater role in managing the Navy, by that time the authority of the Secretary of the Navy--as an extension of the president--was firmly entrenched.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naval Institute Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682477564

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Cover: Commanding Petty Despots, The American Navy in the New Republic by Thomas Sheppard

COMMANDING PETTY DESPOTS

The American Navy in the New Republic

THOMAS SHEPPARD

Naval Institute Press

Annapolis, Maryland

Naval Institute Press

291 Wood Road

Annapolis, MD 21402

© 2022 by Thomas Sheppard

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Sheppard, Thomas, 1985– author.

Title: Commanding petty despots: the American Navy in the new republic / by Thomas Sheppard.

Other titles: American Navy in the new republic

Description: Annapolis, Maryland: Naval Institute Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021045969 (print) | LCCN 2021045970 (ebook) | ISBN 9781682477557 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781682477564 (ebook) | ISBN 9781682477564 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: United States. Navy—History—18th century. | United States. Navy—History—19th century. | United States—History, Naval—To 1900.

Classification: LCC E182.S54 2022 (print) | LCC E182 (ebook) | DDC 359.00973/09033-dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045969

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045970

♾ Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). Printed in the United States of America.

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First printing

To my family

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

CHAPTER 1 To Be Obeyed It Is Necessary to Be Esteemed

The American Revolution at Sea, 1775–1783

CHAPTER 2 To This Great National Object

The Creation of the United States Navy, 1783–1797

CHAPTER 3 To Rid Our Navy of Such Men

Benjamin Stoddert and the Creation of the Navy Department, 1798–1801

CHAPTER 4 To Make an Impression of Our National Character

The Navy in the Tripolitan War, 1801–1807

CHAPTER 5 A Government Rigorously Frugal and Simple

The Navy and the Jeffersonian Republicans, 1805–1812

CHAPTER 6 The Precious Germ of Our National Glory

The Navy and the War of 1812

CHAPTER 7 A Radical Change of System

The Navy Board and Professionalism, 1815–1824

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

MY NAME is the one on the cover, but completing this book would have been impossible without the generous support of a host of people. Even as I write this, I feel sure I will overlook at least a few whose names deserve to be listed, so apologies in advance to anyone who belongs here. Know that I am immensely grateful for the support I have received from each and every person who offered feedback, research tips, professional guidance, and mental and emotional support over the decade-plus that this project has been in gestation.

Adam Kane has been exceedingly patient with my ever-expanding timetable for completion, and his support for this project has been unwavering. Thanks also to acquisitions editor Glenn Griffin, production editor Caitlin Bean, and copy editor extraordinaire Aden Nichols for seeing it through to publication. Two anonymous reviewers also offered helpful feedback that made for a stronger finished product.

This book began many years ago as an MA thesis under the guidance of Sally Hadden, who was invaluable in getting me started on my academic career. Wayne Lee was an ideal mentor in the doctoral dissertation phase of the project, as was Richard Kohn’s keen insight into civil-military relations. Joseph Glatthaar, Kathleen Duval, and Dirk Bonker provided able guidance on my dissertation committee.

Thanks to the generous support of the Smith-Richardson Foundation, I was able to spend a year as a predoctoral fellow at Yale University’s International Security Studies Institute, which was an enormous asset not only to my ability to finish writing the dissertation, but also to grow professionally. Many thanks to Paul Kennedy for his mentorship, and to my co-fellows and the staff at ISS for making it such a delightful season of my life.

While writing both the dissertation and book manuscript, I was fortunate to be able to make multiple trips to the David Library of the American Revolution while it was located at its lovely former home in Washington’s Crossing, Pennsylvania. This beautiful setting provided a wonderful getaway for research and writing retreats, and its vast resources were a treasure for expanding my knowledge of the Revolution and early republic. Meg McSweeney and Kathie Ludwig were charming and helpful hosts on every trip there.

The unfailingly friendly service at the Library of Congress and the National Archives and Records Administration made research easier, as did the supportive staffs of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, the Peabody-Essex Museum of Salem, Massachusetts, the Earl Gregg Swem Library at the College of William and Mary, and the New York Historical Society.

It is impossible to overstate Christopher McKee’s contribution to this book. Over the years, he willingly provided from his vast knowledge in research guidance and feedback, first on the dissertation, then on multiple iterations of book chapters. His enthusiasm for the project inspired and motivated me to keep pressing on with it, and saved me from many mistakes. He has my hearty thanks.

My colleagues at Naval History and Heritage Command have been consistently supportive, regularly asking for updates on my writing and sharing their excitement for this book’s progress. Moreover, they are simply a delight to work with, and I cannot miss the chance to single out Ryan Peeks, Justin Blanton, Charles Brodine, Christine Hughes, Dennis Conrad, Anna Holloway, and Matt Yokell for their support and friendship.

In the time I have been working on this project I’ve lived a somewhat migratory existence, pitching my tent in Chapel Hill, North Carolina; New Haven, Connecticut; and the Washington Metro Area. Some stays were longer than others, but every place was home thanks to the wonderful community of faith I found there. My brothers and sisters at Chapel Hill Bible Church, Trinity Baptist Church of New Haven, and McLean Bible Church of Arlington have enriched my life beyond description, while also consistently showing me I was put on this earth for so much more than lines on a vita. To friends and companions too many to list, thank you.

My family has been faithfully in my corner on this project and everything else I’ve ever attempted. For their love and support over a lifetime, this book is dedicated to them.

Introduction

JUNE 1, 1813. Captain James Lawrence darted up the rigging of the American frigate Chesapeake to get a glimpse of the unknown ship over the horizon. He felt a rush of excitement as he peered through his spyglass at the strange sail, for he had good reason to believe it was a British frigate rumored to be in the vicinity, and that the enemy vessel was as eager to find him as he was it. He was not disappointed—the Royal Navy’s Shannon, almost exactly equal in size and firepower with the Chesapeake, was waiting for Lawrence, alone. Once the Shannon drew near enough to clearly identify, a ship-to-ship duel was Lawrence’s, if only he chose to engage. For the young captain, there was no decision to make. A year into the war, the American navy had already stunned observers on both sides of the Atlantic by winning a series of engagements with the heretofore invincible British navy, and Lawrence burned for the chance to add his name to those of Isaac Hull, Stephen Decatur, and William Bainbridge, his seniors who had humbled the British—and won lasting glory for themselves—in single combat. Rallying his men, Lawrence informed them of the British frigate and fired up their patriotic passions as he prepared for combat. At this point a few began grumbling that they were late getting paid their prize money for earlier captures. Lawrence promptly ordered all accounts with the crew settled; he wanted every man’s heart in the coming battle. The moment all American officers dreamed of was finally his.¹

Meanwhile, British captain Philip Broke was no less eager to engage. Broke felt the humiliation of his country’s losses to the Americans as keenly as any officer, and he was confident his experienced crew was up to the task of avenging British honor. In fact, Broke was so determined to engage the Chesapeake that he had even sent a letter with an American prisoner into Boston harbor, issuing a challenge to the American frigate and promising to send away any other ships of the British blockading squadron to guarantee a fair fight.² The Chesapeake had already sailed by the time the letter reached Boston, but it hardly mattered. Lawrence made course straight for the Shannon, and the battle began just before six o’clock that evening.

It was over in a matter of minutes. Lawrence and his men had no shortage of courage, but they had only been together a brief time; officers and men had not had the chance to be molded together into a competent fighting force. They proved no match for Broke, who had commanded his ship and crew for seven years and had relentlessly drilled the men in gunnery exercises to prepare for precisely this occasion. Three broadsides wreaked havoc on the Chesapeake, shredding the sails and rigging and killing several crewmen. Brutally accurate fire cut through the American officer corps like a scythe, leaving the ship increasingly leaderless. Multiple helmsmen fell, even as attempts to steer became futile thanks to completely shredded sails. The aimless ship drifted into a collision with its British counterpart, making the final boarding action possible. The Shannon hardly came through unscathed. Broke suffered a near-fatal head wound during the boarding, and twenty-five others were killed in the battle. The British attrition was less severe than their American counterparts though; more importantly, the American frigate was reduced to an unmanageable wreck by the time the Shannon’s boarding party seized control.³

Lawrence was not on deck when the British boarders arrived. He was injured in the first broadside, but doggedly remained in command until a bullet from a British sharpshooter struck him in the hip. Mortally wounded, Lawrence shouted Don’t give up the ship to his men as he was carried below. It was a hopeless order. Second Lieutenant George Budd and Acting Third Lieutenant William Cox were now the senior officers on board, but Cox carried Lawrence below and was caught up in the swarm of retreating men while Budd was already engrossed in events belowdecks, oblivious to the desperate straits of his crew. With no American officer left to surrender, a British tar lowered the American flag, and the Chesapeake joined the British fleet.

Lawrence lingered four days, though mostly delirious with pain. He finally passed on June 5, just as the Chesapeake sailed into Halifax, Nova Scotia. The British showed the utmost regard for their gallant enemy, wrapping his body in the Chesapeake’s flag and burying him with full military honors. The United States likewise showered praise on the fallen captain. Although Lawrence was clearly and decisively beaten and the ship entrusted to his care now in enemy hands, his death insured that no censure would be attached to his name for decades.⁴ Lawrence became a national hero, a martyr for his country, and was remembered as a man who had lived up to the ideals of his profession by dying with honor.

He had also defied orders. Amid celebration of Lawrence as the heroic ideal of the young navy, most Americans chose to forget that he would have survived if he had obeyed the directives of the president and Secretary of the Navy.⁵ The new secretary, William Jones, had been quite explicit that he was initiating a new strategy upon assuming office in 1813, one that called for avoiding the British and preserving America’s precious few frigates, rather than seeking the glory of capturing ships the Royal Navy could easily replace.⁶ In addition to the clearly stated general orders of the new secretary, Lawrence also had very specific orders to disrupt the enemy’s communication and destroy her commerce; Jones had left him no room for adventurism against an equally sized and more experienced enemy vessel.⁷

Yet a stronger imperative than obedience to the chain of command drove Lawrence. He was part of an officer corps that valued civilian control of the military, to a point. Yet it also prized fame, glory, and honor as much as, if not more than, following orders. The recent history of the U.S. Navy and the civil-military relationship that had existed throughout Lawrence’s entire career did little to deter him from this mindset. Prior to the War of 1812, the relationship between government officials tasked with overseeing the navy and its officers was an ambiguous one. The idea that the military should be subordinate to the civilian government was universally accepted in the early republic, but officers and civilian officials often had markedly different ideas as to what that subordination should look like. Naval officers verbally acknowledged their duty to obey the government, and there was never the slightest threat of a naval coup or a rogue captain abandoning his country. However, officers also felt that they were entitled to certain prerogatives, and they guarded their turf zealously.

Naval legislation provided little help. In the Revolutionary War, naval administration was chaotic and civil-military relations came under enormous strain. The Continental navy suffered from severe neglect, and governance by committee insured that oversight of the Revolutionary maritime force was a nightmare. With the ratification of the Constitution, management of naval forces became the sole prerogative of the executive branch, but at first this brought only marginal improvement. An overworked secretary of war superintended the entire American military on land and sea, creating chaos at the top that was barely mitigated by the tiny size of the navy. Finally, Congress provided stability and a clear chain of command by creating the Navy Department in 1798. From that point forward, the ostensible head of the navy—under the president, of course—was the Secretary of the Navy. The first five secretaries—Benjamin Stoddert (1798–1800), Robert Smith (1801–9), Paul Hamilton (1809–12), William Jones (1813–14), and Benjamin Crowninshield (1815–18)—guided the navy through its formative years, and shaped the understanding of how a proper civil-military relationship should function. While Congress always asserted (or assumed) the idea of civilian control, it seldom went beyond that, leaving the details of naval officers’ relationship to the Navy Department for the parties themselves to work out. The rules about when to defer to an officer’s expertise and judgment and what matters should be left for the officer corps to govern itself were unwritten, and those in uniform were frequently working from a different set of unwritten rules than the secretaries.

At the root of these tensions was the fact that men who commanded ships were used to being the ones giving orders. The era’s understanding of the captain’s role was not conducive to enthusiastic subordination to civilian authority. The sea was a hazardous place, and death was an ever-present possibility. Ships of the Age of Sail were among the most complex and sophisticated machines in the world at the time, and coordinating all the tasks necessary to make them function required strict discipline even in calm seas; when violent storms or naval battles threatened the lives of all on board, the wisdom of the day held that only universal and instant obedience could ensure safe return to land. Maintaining discipline over potentially rowdy crews hinged on the captain’s authority being total and unchallenged. In practice, of course, relations between captain and crew were subtly negotiated, and astute captains understood there were limits to what their sailors would accept without resistance or even outright mutiny.⁸ Yet this negotiation existed out of sight. The overwhelming reality was that every detail of shipboard life revolved around absolute obedience and graphic displays of punishment for any deviation.

Perhaps the best summary of a captain’s power came from David Porter, a man who spent decades in the U.S. Navy, eventually attaining its highest rank. In 1835, while serving as an American diplomat in Constantinople, Porter noted the parallels between the Turkish sultan’s total authority over his people and the power of the captain of a naval vessel. A man of war is a petty kingdom, governed by a petty despot, he observed. In ways, the captain maintained even more unchecked power than the sultan, for since the latter was the most absolute sovereign on earth, he could afford to be kind and courteous to those around him. The ruler of a man-of-war, however, could never let his autocratic bearing slip for even a moment; he had to rule over his subordinates on board with tyrannical authority to maintain their constant compliance. Porter allowed himself to recall with more than a hint of bitterness his own experience as a young midshipman on the receiving end of his commander’s bullying, but he apparently never had any negative thoughts about his own authoritarian rule during an extended career at the top of the naval hierarchy.⁹

The power of a captain over his seamen was indeed immense, and officers saw themselves as inhabiting a different world than those who took orders from them. To stoop to receiving orders instead of giving them was a source of frustration for most of America’s petty despots. David Porter, the same man who later compared himself to a Turkish sultan, once groused that the South Carolinian Secretary of the Navy, Paul Hamilton, needed to remember that his officers were of an entirely different class and station than the enslaved laborers on Hamilton’s plantation that he could command at his pleasure. It is supposed, Porter said of Hamilton, that he has been too long in the habit of driving slaves to know how to regard the honorable feelings of gentlemen.¹⁰ While willing to acknowledge the vague principle of civilian authority, officers also valued their own independence and dignity, and resented it when they perceived civilian oversight as too restrictive.

In the same vein as frustration at being on the receiving end of orders, naval officers’ zeal for preserving their reputations also often worked against civilian control. Any understanding of civil-military relations in the navy is inextricably tied to the era’s understanding of—indeed obsession with—honor. This was an era in which personal reputation, and the quest to maintain it, dominated every aspect of a man’s life. For all their concern about honor, officers at the time found it easier to recognize when it was missing than to define it with precision. A late-eighteenth century military manual conceded that honor was a vague expression, which custom has given different meanings.¹¹ Yet virtually any understanding of honor recognized it as being tied to good character; a military dictionary published in the United States defined honor as a consciousness of worth and virtue in the individual, and a lively desire to preserve the reputation of virtue.¹² More certain than the definition was the reality that a man’s honor was incredibly fragile. A contemporary major in the British Army mused that many authors have wrote on [honor], but I find none that have compared it to the eye, which can’t suffer the least moat in it, without being blemished. Honor may be called a precious stone, which the least speck makes less valuable! It is a treasure irrecoverable once unfortunately lost!¹³

Americans carried over their ideas about honor from early modern Europe, prizing martial valor and risk-taking, personal integrity, honesty, the esteem of the community.¹⁴ Central to this conception of honor was the rejection of the lowly, the alien, and the shamed.¹⁵ Because of the indispensable yet fragile nature of a man’s reputation, it was perpetually insecure, and had to be preserved constantly. There were positive aspects to such a conception of honor. One of America’s first military handbooks noted that this endless desire to preserve a man’s reputation acted as a barrier … against corruption and excited [him] to deeds of valor.¹⁶ In the negative, it could lead men to recklessness, and even carelessness with their own lives, as evidenced by the widespread practice of dueling. An honorable officer needed to prove that he had no fear of death; displays of bravery that would seem insane to twenty-first-century viewers were the minimum standard at the end of the eighteenth.¹⁷

Closely tied to honor was fame, the desire to be celebrated by one’s fellow men. It was a yearning to be a great man, that is, according to Douglas Adair, one who stands out, who towers above his fellows in some spectacular way. The desire for fame included not only one’s fellow countrymen, though they were certainly part of it, but also future generations. At its heart, the desire for fame is the desire for immortality.¹⁸ It is difficult to overstate how much these ideas drove naval officers in the Revolution and early republic. Unless this search for fame … is recognized as a primary element in the ethical air breathed by naval officers, Christopher McKee contends that a true understanding of that corps is as impossible as if one lacked basic data of ranks and numbers.¹⁹ Few expressed it as boldly as John Paul Jones, who boasted that my desire for fame is infinite, but the early navy was dominated by officers who shared Jones’ mindset.²⁰

For American naval officers, ideas about honor were hardly unique—they meshed perfectly with the existing culture in European militaries, and in particular the British navy on which virtually every aspect of the U.S. Navy was modeled (even if few American officers were willing to say so out loud). In the Royal Navy during the period leading up to the American Revolution, recklessness with one’s life in battle contrasted with an unshakeable commitment to one’s prerogatives and privileges in dealings with the civilian government. British naval officers were part of the military hierarchy, and as such obliged to follow orders, but they were also gentlemen of status, and throughout the eighteenth century they carefully guarded their standing even above their devotion to the national good. A gentleman was the only proper judge of what was needful to sustain his honour, writes N. A. M. Rodger, and an officer’s honour might be offended, in his own eyes, by any order which threatened to lower his consequence, to limit his power and influence, to direct his career or operations in some direction less advantageous than he felt he deserved.²¹ In this, they were similar to civilians of noble standing in government, who likewise shunned diplomatic assignments they found unworthy of their stature.²² The first generation of American naval officers shared this mindset, and the prevailing ideology of honor frequently trumped a commitment to civilian control. Thomas Truxtun, one of the most celebrated heroes of the U.S. Navy, put it bluntly, I owed my life to the service of my country. But I knew of no duty imposing on me the obligation to sacrifice my reputation.²³

The army in America at this time did not differ substantially from the navy in its willingness to put honor ahead of subordination. The officer corps of the Continental army had George Washington’s iron commitment to civilian control as a model and guide, although at least some officers still nearly exploded in mutiny. A cabal plotted at the end of the war to force their will on Congress at the point of a bayonet—or at least they threatened to. The whole story of the Newburgh Conspiracy is forever shrouded in a layer of mystery, and for at least some involved, the possibility of mutiny was merely a bargaining tactic to pressure Congress. Whatever their full intentions, Washington thankfully managed to avert disaster and maintained his commitment to civilian supremacy to the end.²⁴

No such dire threats ever came from the army of the Confederation or the early republic, but that did not mean army officers showed a keen devotion to professionalism or civilian control. While America’s naval officers were viciously attacking each other, including slaying one another on dueling grounds, their brethren on land were no different. William Skelton argues that seldom has an army been led by a more refractory and contentious group of men than that of the early republic, and an officer whose career was not punctuated by acts of indiscipline and acrimonious controversies was a rarity. A deep commitment to their own honor also strained subordination for army officers, who readily defied orders that threatened their reputations among their peers.²⁵

Far from trying to quash this mindset, civilian leaders—be they members of the Continental Congress, Hamiltonian Federalists, or Jeffersonian Republicans—deliberately encouraged it. The reality of America’s place in the world made officers in the mold of John Paul Jones and Thomas Truxtun indispensable. The great powers of the era looked on the infant United States and its supposedly unstable republican government with contempt, and the warring nations of Britain and France treated the Americans as minor players in their global struggle. Naval officers understood that they performed before an international audience with their country’s reputation on the line. The U.S. Navy existed, in part, to earn respect for the upstart republic. Given this reality, the first five Secretaries of the Navy had no patience for officers who displayed timidity, sloth, or cowardice, yet they tolerated blatant insubordination from captains who showed zeal for the honor of their country. Promoting such attitudes was not without cost, however. These same officers often put their own honor and reputation ahead of the good of the service, and their infighting, even to the point of fatal duels, was a source of constant frustration to the Navy Department.

Beyond clashes over honor, the division of responsibility—and accompanying authority—was at times murky. The nature of sea travel and communications at the time contributed to this. Once a ship left port, the captain—or commodore, in the case of a fleet—was largely beyond the government’s reach. With cruises lasting for months, even occasionally more than a year, a naval commander had to be able to adapt to changing circumstances, and obviously enjoyed a great deal of autonomy. Wise civilian leaders grasped this reality and left room in their orders for the captain or commodore to respond to the situation on the ground (or on the water, as it were). This autonomy tended to extend to the ship even when it was in port. While a captain following the orders of the president did not, in a literal sense, wield the same power as an Ottoman sultan over his men, in practice the Navy Department tended to stay out of his treatment of subordinate officers and sailors. This was less true during the Revolutionary War than in the early republic; the ideals of the Revolution often clashed with the authority of the officers on Continental navy ships, and the Continental Congress showed greater concern for the liberty of American sailors than the Navy Department created under the Constitution. In part, the latter’s attitudes were a reaction against the bedlam of the War for Independence. A greater willingness to allow naval officers to enforce discipline as they saw fit was just one of many ways the navy of the early republic sought stability and order instead of the chaos and bureaucratic disaster that plagued the Continental navy.

The growth of professionalism and effectiveness from the Revolution to the early republic was also very much a product of the officer corps itself; naval officers took their profession very seriously. While they varied in their concern for the well-being of sailors (and the loyalty they incited from their men),²⁶ those who achieved highest rank all recognized that training up the next generation of officers was among their most important priorities.

In an era prior to any kind of naval academy, building the officer corps fell to the officers themselves, and captains devoted significant attention to this role. Their loyalty to their profession far exceeded devotion or sympathy to any one brother officer, and the corps grew in professionalism as those at the highest ranks unhesitatingly purged anyone unworthy of a commission. Richard Dale, one of the first captains, bluntly asserted that a man may be a very good seaman, and be qualified to command a Merchant Vessel, but at the same time be very unfit to command in the Navy. In words that resonated with his peers, he went on to say that it is the duty of every Officer that has the honour to hold a Commission in the Navy, if he should see that someone holding the same commission is unworthy of it, to do all that lays in his power to drive the offender out of the service.²⁷

The first five secretaries of the navy were happy to let